Deals with Death
by Nationless
Summary: How far will someone go to save themselves? Arthur has been asking himself that question ever since he died ten years ago. After working under Death for nearly a decade, his freedom is now in sight. But, the latest addition to his Kill List will make him question if it's really worth it. Warnings: Character death of questionable permanency.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:**Hetalia and its characters do not belong to me. They are property of Himaruya.

~X~

_"Arthur James Kirkland."_

_The teen's head snapped up, glaring defiantly at the darkness. "Who are you, and what the hell do you want?" Bottle green eyes searched the shadows, hoping to bring clarity to this bizarre situation._

_He heard a chuckle. "Temper. Do you realize what is going on, child? Where you are, even?" His voice caressed over the words, sending an unwelcome shudder through Arthur's system._

_Arthur huffed in irritation as he tried to get a closer look at the speaker. He couldn't see the ground he walked upon, but it certainly wasn't going to stop him from moving forward. "It's a dream," he said definitively. "I'm asleep on the plane. And more the point, I'm not a _child_."_

_"Oh, but you are, Arthur." He could almost hear the smirk in the voice. "That's actually one of the reasons I'm speaking to you."_

_"Will you shut up and get to the damn point?" Arthur snapped._

_There was a marked pause, and a low chuckle. "Let's make a deal, shall we? I'm sure you won't regret it."_

~X~

Arthur Kirkland peered over the edge of the two-story home he stood on. A small grimace turned the corners of his lips. He was regretting his decision more than ever.

The roof's tiles were rough beneath his combat boots, and he could feel the chill of the early-April night on his exposed skin. A soft breeze caused him to tense farther, the teen hypersensitive to everything around him.

He never should have made a deal with Death. It was probably the stupidest thing he had done in his short life. It was a hell of a lot worse than the tattoo he got when drunk, or the tongue piercing a few weeks after. Sure, the deal had sounded appealing at the time, but now….

Now, he had priorities. Getting irate over a done deal wouldn't help him now. Instead, he had to try and get his bearings the best he could. Best he get it over with.

The area he was in was unfamiliar to him. It was a suburban neighborhood with nothing but perfect cookie-cutter homes, and lives. A place where Arthur obviously didn't belong.

If anyone were to see him on the roof, they would immediately call the cops. Green dye still clung to the tips of his once bright blond hair, and hints of eyeliner rimmed his bright eyes. His clothing was tattered from years of hard wear, and some of it was only held together by safety pins. Even his posture was hunched over, crouching on the roof of a home he surely didn't belong on.

In a word, he looked suspicious.

He realized this; if he could change his appearance, he would in a heartbeat. Unfortunately, he couldn't do a thing about it. Not anymore. He was going to be stuck looking like a teenage punk until he repaid his debt.

After nearly an hour of patient waiting, his target came into sight, and his frown deepened.

Arthur used to be partial to Mr. Stephens; he was a good professor. He judged the teen based on his intelligence, not his piercings and brightly colored hair.

But, work was work. Or, that's what he told himself as his grip on the bow tightened. It didn't matter how much he liked the man ten years ago; what mattered was that if Arthur didn't do this, then he would lose his shot to come back.

He had too much blood on his hands to turn back now.

He pulled an arrow from behind his back, and carefully notched it. Slowly, he eased it back until he couldn't force any more give from the bow. "Sorry, professor," he whispered as he let it loose.

A loud 'snap' reverberated through the once-silent night. The man on the streets below collapsed, and hit the ground heavily. Arthur's aim was as perfect as ever; one shot straight through the heart.

Something twisted in the teen's gut. It didn't get any easier to hear the thud of a body hit the ground. Ninety six deaths hadn't made this one any more bearable. If anything, this was the hardest so far.

He was never forced to take the life of someone he knew before.

He allowed himself to fall from the roof, landing noiselessly on the pavement. 'Just get it over with,' he told himself as he approached the dead body.

It was unnerving to look at the corpse of someone you once knew. The past decade wasn't kind to the man; his hair had thinned significantly, and he looked worn down.

Now, death's pallor clung to his skin. Hazel eyes fixed unseeing on the night sky. There was no blood, and when Arthur finished his assignment, there would be no evidence of foul play. He would be considered another heart attack victim.

Cold fingers locked around the blackened arrow, and with a sharp tug, it dissolved in his hands as the man's soul was released.

"Three more," he murmured aloud. "Then I can be done with this hell of a job." Turning on his heel, he disappeared into the night, like the ghost he almost was.

~X~

Sunlight was beginning to touch the sky as Arthur shoved open the door to what looked like any other corporate building. Several people were milling around the lobby, some as young as thirteen, while others were well into their forties and fifties. All of them were just like him; dead and looking for a way out.

Likely, it was an introductory day. People normally didn't linger here longer than necessary. While the white tiled floors and cream colored walls didn't raise much alarm, there was an aura about this place that made people shy away. It was as if they could sense the darkness that went on here.

A man with shoulder-length blond hair and sharp green eyes was seated behind the main desk. Vash Zwingli, from what Arthur understood, had made a different sort of deal than Arthur had. Instead of dead bodies, he was paying with years of service. Sometimes, Arthur was sure that Vash had a harder deal than he did.

"Your last three kills, Kirkland," he said with disdain. In his hand, he held three different files. Impatiently, he motioned the boy over. "I don't want to hold these damned things all day."

Dutifully, Arthur made his way across the tile floor. "Know how much time is left on my sentence?"

He rolled his eyes. "Don't know, don't care. Now if that's all you're here for, get out. I have enough problems without you running around." With that, he slammed the folders against the desk, causing some of the other people to look over.

"How much time do you have left?" he asked quietly as he took the files. Vash had been here for at least as long as Arthur; he didn't think deals lasted too much longer than fifteen years on average.

A small shift in his expression told Arthur more than he needed to know. "Too long," he muttered. "At this rate, even Braginski will get out before me."

Arthur shook his head. The Russian had been here for over half a century and he still had a long way to go. "I head one of us got out. Know who?"

"What part of 'don't know, don't care' don't you get?" he asked testily. "It was the Italian one," he admitted with a sigh. "Lovino. About time, honestly, he'd been here too long."

Arthur tried not to smile. "Well, best of luck. Hopefully we'll meet on the other side."

The Swiss man scoffed. "Not likely. Now get out; I don't want to see you back here."

Arthur couldn't stop the grin spreading across his face. He knew Vash well enough to translate what he had just said.

'I hope so too. Now get out and finish so you can finally be done with this cursed deal.'

He didn't open the folders just yet; curious as he was, the building made him tense. The glass door was cold on his hand as he pulled it open for what he hoped would be the last time.

The sun felt good on his skin. Instinctively, he tilted his head back to bask in the warmth for at least a little while. He had nothing pressing to attend to anyways.

~X~

'Three months', Arthur thought in disgust. He wouldn't be free until mid-July. He could care less about the last three deaths he was about to cause, but the fact that they were so spread out… That upset him.

The typical wait-time he had between kills was about one month. It was normal to take out three people in three months, but this time… It felt much different this time. To know that these were his last victims and to have to wait three months before he was done was hard for him to deal with.

For the twelfth time, he went over the names and dates of the soon-to-be deceased. Just to make sure that he had them right.

Andrea Parks would be killed next Thursday. That wasn't a big deal. He could find a way to amuse himself for a week or so. He had done it multiple times before.

Arthur would then have to wait over a month before he could kill Peter Michaels. That would test his patience. He was getting anxious just thinking about what he would do with that amount of time.

But the worst was Francis Bonnefoy. There was almost a two month gap between Peter and Francis. Arthur thought he would likely go insane during that wait. To be so close to success, but not being able to actually attain it for two agonizing months… Excruciating.

In a way, though, this would be easier. He didn't know a single one of these people. None of them were particularly interesting to him. There was no reason he should have trouble taking any of them out.

The files were tucked away, and Arthur decided that now was as good a time as any to acquaint himself with the people he was going to kill.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: **Thanks to everyone who started following this, adding it to their favorites, etc. ^_^ I hope this lives up to your expectations.

**Disclaimer: **Hetalia and its respective characters are property of Himaruya, and not me.

~X~

Arthur stood on the side of the pavement, watching as the crowds of people walked by. From what little he had gathered from the file, Francis was supposed to work in this area. He was the last person Arthur was to kill, so he was the last person Arthur tracked down.

Or, tried to track down, to be more accurate. After checking in all the buildings on the street, Arthur had yet to find the soon-to-be dead man. He knew what he looked like; blond hair, blue eyes, an arrogant set to his mouth… Arthur had paid more attention to the photograph than he needed to.

With a sigh, he leaned back against a brick building. It was a shame. Arthur had easily found Ms. Parks and Mr. Michaels; he had been feeling good about his tracking capabilities up until now.

"They're beautiful, no?" a lightly accented voice noted.

Arthur glanced over to the person who was speaking, and froze. He recognized that face. A photograph of it had been included in the files. Francis Bonnefoy.

The picture didn't do him justice, Arthur noted with faint dissatisfaction. It didn't capture the mischievousness in his light blue eyes, or the gentle wave of his honey-toned hair. The arrogant curve of his mouth was still there, but it was tempered with amusement.

A quick grin turned his lips at the punk's shocked expression. "You've been standing here a while. Watching the crowds, I assume? Or are you waiting for someone?"

Arthur grimaced. "Neither. What, I can't stand here for no reason?"

Francis chuckled quietly. "You certainly can, but that would be rather boring. Besides, you don't look the type." Slowly, he appraised Arthur, who cringed from the scrutiny. "Why don't you come by my corner? For you, free of charge."

A sudden flush covered his cheeks. Surely, the man couldn't be implying…? "What kind of person do you think I am?" he snapped. "I don't… That's… Christ! What is wrong with you?"

Francis looked at him with a sort of bemused concern for a moment. "What exactly are you babbling about? You should be flattered; I don't offer a free portrait to everyone. It would be terrible for business."

Confusion set in instantly. "What?" he asked, cursing his failed eloquence. Any ability with words Arthur once had seemed to have vanished the second the Frenchman opened his mouth.

He laughed lowly, enchantingly. "My dear, I am merely asking for you to be my muse for a moment. Unless… You have no plans, correct? No reason you should refuse?"

There was something compelling in the man's tone; something that Arthur found himself nearly entranced by. Something in Francis' voice had Arthur willing to do almost anything he requested.

Almost.

"I have no reason to agree," he retorted. "Why would you even bother? Like you said, it's bad business to be doing this sort of thing. You don't even know who the hell I am."

Francis shrugged, somehow making the movement look elegant. "I am not one to turn down inspiration. I don't need to know you to know that you would look nice on a sheet of paper."

Arthur's eyes widened at the potential double meaning. "I don't know a thing about you," he tried instead. "How do I know all you want to do is draw me?"

Instead of answering right away, Francis offered his right hand for Arthur's inspection. Black charcoal stained his fingertips. The lighter gray of graphite was smudged on the heel of his hand, and small calluses from holding a pencil were evident.

"Is this enough proof of my occupation?" he asked, dropping his hand back to his side. "Or must I show you a portfolio?" He paused for a moment. "My name is Francis Bonnefoy," he added.

Arthur shook his head mutely. To be honest, it wasn't much proof. All that showed is that Francis was an artist. It didn't mean that he had no ulterior motives.

"'No', that's not enough proof, or 'no', you don't need to see my portfolio?"

"You don't need to show me," Arthur murmured. "I'll trust you." It was a first for Arthur; he had learned the hard way not to trust anyone. But, he didn't see how the Frenchman could hurt him any more than he had already been.

A smile quirked his lips once more. "Good. Now, you will follow me?"

Almost mechanically, Arthur did as asked. He wasn't sure why he was going to trust this man. Maybe it was the fact that Francis was slated to die soon that the assassin was obliging him. Arthur could see no other reason.

Once Francis led him into an alleyway, Arthur began to regret following. "You better not be planning anything shady," he muttered, glaring at the brickwork around him.

He scoffed. "Please. You're much too young, and with those eyebrows…" He shuddered. "It's much quieter here. I'll be able to focus better."

Arthur grimaced. "There's absolutely nothing wrong with my eyebrows, and that's not reassuring in the slightest."

Francis rolled his eyes, but didn't bother refuting the statement. Instead, he motioned over to a little alcove. "There is a chair in there; take a seat. I never caught your name, incidentally."

Arthur leveled a glare at him before complying. It wasn't much; just a worn wooden chair facing a brick wall. "Arthur Kirkland," he answered as he eased himself into the chair. He felt a bit awkward just sitting there; he could feel the intense gaze of the other blond.

"Arthur Kirkland," he repeated slowly, as if tasting the name. "Well, Arthur, would you turn the chair maybe fifteen degrees towards me," Francis instructed. "Just like that. Now put your legs over the left arm of the it… Perfect. Rest your right elbow on the other arm, and lean your chin against your hand."

Arthur rolled his eyes at the non-stop demands as he tried to position himself to Francis' will. After nearly ten minutes of listening to the artist nag his posture, he snapped. "If you don't like it, why don't you find someone else to draw?"

"Because 'someone else' doesn't have those dreamer's eyes," Francis snapped right back. "I picked you for a reason. Now do as I ask, and arch your neck back more."

Arthur growled. "Fine." He ignored the 'dreamer's eyes' comment; likely he didn't mean anything by it.

It took another five minutes before Francis was finally satisfied with the way Arthur looked. "Try not to move too much," he ordered as he eased out a rather large sheet of paper from a portfolio case. A case of pencils was opened next to him. "This will take about an hour or two."

Arthur did his best to follow that order. He resisted the urge to fidget, to adjust himself into a more comfortable position.

He ended up watching Francis for quite a while; closer than he would admit to. He noted how those blue eyes would frequently flick from Arthur to the page, and then back again.

Arthur noted the wide, sweeping motions of his hand and arm at the beginning, and the gradual shift to smaller, more precise movements.

It was odd to think that in two month's time, this man would be no more. Francis wouldn't be taking people to this little niche in the alley to draw them. The family he might have would never see him again.

These thoughts occasionally passed Arthur's mind during his stint as Death's Assassin; rarely did he entertain them long. But, then, he rarely took the time to actually watch those he was to kill. Mr. Stephens had been the first he knew more than in passing.

"Why me?" Arthur asked, finally deciding to ignore the 'don't move' rule.

For what it was worth, Francis didn't seem irritated. He didn't even bother looking up from the portrait in progress. "I know what you are. I felt like I should extend you some courtesy based on that. Besides, I'm not passing up the opportunity to draw a face like that."

"What I am?" Arthur repeated. He realized that Francis could be referring to anything. But somehow, he couldn't shake the feeling that Francis could possibly know that he wasn't exactly alive.

"Stop talking until I'm done. I'll answer you then," Francis said.

Arthur huffed. "I'm holding you to that," he muttered almost inaudibly.

Again, they were reduced to silence. They could still hear the thinning crowds on the street, and the scratching of graphite on paper, but aside from that, there was nothing.

A small sense of dread coursed through Arthur. If Francis knew… If Francis knew what he was, then his death would be slotted up to 'now'. Normal people weren't supposed to know about people like Arthur; it wasn't allowed.

It made it much more difficult to stay motionless when these thoughts ran rampant.

After what felt like an eternity, Francis finally put down the pencil. "You are free," he said simply. "Would you like to see?"

Arthur shook his head as he stood. He could just take it from Francis once he was dead if he decided he wanted it after all. "I don't want it. I just want to know what you meant when you said 'I know what you are'."

Francis pouted slightly. "I create you a masterpiece and you do not want it? That's rather rude. And here I put so much time and effort into it. It's an insult, really."

He refused to be distracted by Francis' ramblings. "Answer my question," Arthur said.

Francis rolled his eyes and carefully placed the drawing back with the rest of his paper. "I meant I know what you are. You are a spirit. My mamma always said to be gracious to the dead. I must say, I was almost fooled at first. You seem completely normal at first glance."

He was going to have to kill Francis, Arthur realized. Not in three months, but now. He couldn't live with this knowledge. "You realize you sound like a madman, right?" Arthur asked. "I'm just as alive as you."

Those usually bright blue eyes darkened slightly. "Arthur, don't lie to me. You don't have a shadow, and you're skin is lighter than the page I just drew you on. Mamma taught me the markers of the deceased. Though I wonder… Are you just a ghost, or are you one of the angels?"

Arthur had to try not to laugh. 'Try the other end of the spectrum,' he thought bitterly. "I'm not dead," he repeated. "Now, if you don't mind, I'll be taking my leave." Arthur turned on his heel, and headed back towards the street.

He had to remind himself to breathe. He couldn't take Francis' life. Not now. He would have to clear it with death. If he were to kill him now, Arthur's chance at life would vanish.

"You cannot deny what you are, Arthur," Francis called to him. "No more than I can deny what I am."

Arthur refused to look back. Instead, he joined the nearly nonexistent drones of people back on the street. Much as Vash didn't want to see him again, and as much as Arthur didn't want to go back to that building, he didn't have a choice right now.

~X~

Vash shot him a look of 'I don't want to know what you got into, but I expect you to tell me anyways' when Arthur half-ran past his desk.

He had to go to Death's room as quickly as possible. If Francis told anyone, it was Arthur's head that would roll.

He shoved open the unmarked door, and everything was black. Just like that first day.

"And what are you doing here?" Death asked, amusement barely hiding his irritation.

"I think Francis Bonnefoy knows," he blurted out. "He said something about me being one of the dead, and how his mother knew the signs." His hands were trembling lightly, partially out of fear of Death, but mostly out of fear of what Francis' punishment would be.

"And that's exactly what he said?" Death asked. The darkness seemed to shift, closing in on Arthur. "I want you to think carefully about this, Arthur."

He took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself. "He called me a 'spirit'. Said I was one of the deceased, and asked if I might be an angel."

There was a heavy silence as Death pondered this. "This Francis Bonnefoy is to die in two months," he mused. "He does not suspect you of working for me, so it is my decision to allow him to live until then. I would expect you to be more careful, Arthur. You've been at this long enough to not make these careless mistakes."

It was like a father admonishing a child, Arthur thought with disgust. "I'm sorry. I'll be more careful."

"I expect you to. Now leave. We still have a deal, and I expect your end to be upheld."

Arthur nodded once, and left the room as quickly as he entered.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** Once again, thanks to all of you who favorited, alerted, and reviewed ^_^ Honestly, I wasn't expecting quite that many of you, considering we're only two chapters in…. So thank you very much!

Oh, and unless I can get another chapter out by Tuesday, I wouldn't expect another update until the 18th. I'll be in Colorado without my computer for a while, so I apologize.

**Disclaimer:** Hetalia and its characters are property of Himaruya, and not me.

~X~

Arthur had been sure to stay clear of Francis' corner over the next several days. It had been difficult to find a sufficient distraction, but he somehow managed.

Though, Arthur could now say that he had broken into a library, and had stolen from it. In his mind, he justified it by saying he would return the books as soon as he finished reading them. He probably wouldn't. It would actually be a small miracle if he returned them at all.

Fortunately, Thursday arrived relatively quickly. The day he got one step closer to freedom. He waited patiently for Andrea Parks to arrive at her intended place of death; though he wasn't sure why she was going to be at a church on a Thursday afternoon. Perhaps she knew what was going to happen to her.

Arthur found himself hiding up in the rafters, keeping out of view when she arrived. He felt completely cold towards her; Andrea was nothing more than a name and a face to him.

It was a pretty face, no doubting that. Long red hair with light blue eyes set in a heart-shaped face. Maybe she looked a bit childish, but then she was barely eighteen. There was something about the set of her brow that would make most people worry. She looked innocent, and scared.

Slowly, she made her way to the farthest pew back, as close to the wall as she could. There, she pulled her knees to her chest, and generally huddled in on herself.

A small frown turned Arthur's lips. He wouldn't be able to get a clean shot of her like this.

In the back of his mind, Arthur wondered when he became so _inhuman_. He couldn't even muster up the decency to feel even a little pity for this woman. He could care less if she was upset; he just wanted to get another name crossed off his list.

There would be another five minutes before she was to die. Hopefully, Andrea would move enough that he wouldn't have to use multiple arrows on her. Carefully, he began climbing across the rafters to get a better angle.

Well, that wasn't the only reason he was moving. Arthur needed a distraction so he wouldn't keep staring at Andrea. He couldn't look at her; it made him feel ill to watch her shoulders shake with silent sobs.

"I'm sorry, God," she said faintly. "I'm so sorry, I really didn't mean to…"

Arthur could feel a knife twist in his gut as he gingerly eased himself across the rough wood. He almost snapped right then and there. It took almost everything he had to not take her life, if for no other reason than to end whatever misery she was going through. He didn't want to listen to it.

But, he would have to be patient. Two more minutes until he was allowed. He would have to listen to her prayers for another two minutes.

"If I had known," she continued. "If I had known that he would have done that, I never would have said those things. I didn't know he would take his own life, I swear!" As she continued, Andrea's voice got louder and more hysterical. "Honest, if I could take it back, I would!"

Arthur tensed up, starting to feel just as wound up as Andrea. How much longer was he going to have to hear this? One minute? A minute and a half? He felt like he was going to break.

The tension was running high enough in the room that Arthur vaguely worried that he may snap.

Finally, Andrea unfurled. Her arms unlocked from her knees, and her legs dangled loose over the edge of the bench. In her hand, a small glass vial glinted in the light. "Forgive me," she whispered, barely loud enough for Arthur to hear. Her tear-stained face turned up towards Arthur.

A chill went through him. That had to be his cue. With barely shaking hands, he readied his shot. Her cause of death was going to be poison. The seemingly empty vial pretty much screamed it.

He barely registered the sound of the church door opening, and then closing. If he noticed whatsoever, he put it instantly out of his mind.

Arthur was almost sorry about killing her. She was young, and she was full of remorse. If she were to be offered a deal, Arthur had no doubts that she would take it. No one deserved that.

Once Arthur got his aim, he closed his eyes tightly. Though he had many deaths to his name, he had never killed in a church. Never killed someone this young. He visibly flinched at the snap of the bow, and refused to watch the arrow hit his target.

His eyes remained firmly closed until he heard the sound of her body hit the bench, and the quiet noise of breaking glass.

He had to take a shaky breath to try and pull himself together. Arthur didn't want to break; not at this stage of the game.

Often, he had been told stories—mostly by Vash—about Death's Assassin's who made it through their entire debts, but faltered on the last one. That minor break had been enough to damn them. Arthur wasn't going to do that. He refused to let his efforts be reduced to nothing.

He had to take several deep breaths before he could swing himself down from the rafters. Once he managed to get back to relative normal, he swung down from the rafters. The sound of his boots on the floor reverberated through the building, and brought Arthur a hint of comfort.

As he approached the body, he started to feel less sick. This was routine. Having to listen to Andrea's prayers and apologies had gotten under his skin. Now that she was just as dead as anyone, he could shove that all out of his mind.

As his fingers wrapped tightly around the arrow's shaft, he heard another set of footsteps, and a voice he was uncomfortably familiar with.

"So my assumptions of you being an angel were a touch off, then?"

Arthur froze. This couldn't end well. After taking a moment to re-gather himself, he responded. "Francis, if you know what's good for you, you will leave this place and forget anything you think you saw."

"And if I don't know what is good for me?" Francis retorted. "I would like to know why you had to kill this child." He got unnecessarily close to Andrea then; examining her closely. "There's no blood…?" Blue eyes flicked between the girl and her killer. "Arthur, what exactly is going on?"

He grit his teeth and yanked the arrow out; releasing the girl's soul. Arthur really didn't want to have to kill Francis on top of Andrea today. "Take my advice and get out of here," Arthur snapped. "If you value your life, you'll do as I say. I'm not kidding, Francis." His eyes met the others with a glare. "Get out."

Francis seemed unimpressed. "Or what? You'll kill me like you killed her?"

"You say that like I had a bloody choice in the matter!" As soon as these words passed his lips, Arthur would have given anything to take them back. The last thing he needed was Francis knowing anything more.

Shock passed over Francis' face for a split second. "Then why did you?" he asked, concern tinting his tone.

He could feel himself breaking apart. All the tension, all the lies, everything was beginning to unravel him. "Just go," Arthur repeated. "I'm not talking about it with you. We aren't friends, remember?"

Francis appraised the teen for a moment before reaching out to grab his wrist and began to drag him away from the body. "You're right. We're not friends. But as a decent human being, I'm concerned. So we'll leave this building, and you will tell me what's going on. Understand?"

Arthur wanted to resist. He wanted to fight off the street artist more than anything. But, he found that his body didn't respond, and was allowing Francis to lead him out of the church.

~X~

Somehow, they found themselves back in the alley from several days before. Once again, Francis motioned to the chair in the alcove. "Take a seat. I'm going to call the police, and then we're going to discuss this."

He rolled his eyes. "You make it sound as if I am a child who misbehaved," Arthur muttered as Francis returned to the street, cell phone already to his ear.

If he wanted to, Arthur could have run. There was a very good chance that he would have gotten away if he did so. Francis was likely distracted enough that by the time he noticed Arthur was gone, he would be beyond finding.

For some reason, though, he didn't. He took a seat in the worn wooden chair, and waited patiently for the Frenchman's return; silently dreading whatever was about to happen.

"It was ruled a suicide. They found traces of cyanide in a bottle she had," Francis announced as he returned to the alley. Out of what may have been habit, he tied his longer hair back in a low ponytail.

Arthur looked up, and nodded. "I saw the vial in her hand. Are you going to continue on this ridiculous tirade about how I killed her?"

"What exactly are you?" he asked instead of answering. "I can touch you, so you aren't a spirit. If you're killing people, I highly doubt you're an angel. But you have no shadow, which means you aren't alive. So, Arthur what are you?"

A wry grin tugged his lips. "I can't tell you." He was attempting to keep his answers as short as he could. The more he told Francis, the higher the chance was that he would die before he was actually supposed to.

He sighed impatiently. "Why did you kill her, then? And don't tell me you didn't, because I watched you."

Arthur shook his head slowly. "She was dead before I got there. Cyanide. Which also means it wasn't my fault."

"Are you going to give me a straight answer, or am I going to have to figure it out on my own? Because I promise that I will learn your secrets whether you tell me or not."

"The likelihood of you knowing in time is smaller than cheating Death," Arthur bit back. "Don't even bother, Francis. You're almost out of time as is. Don't waste it trying to learn my useless secrets."

There was a definite pause as Francis absorbed what Arthur had said, and Arthur realized exactly what he had just said.

"You're a Grim Reaper," Francis finally said with resignation. "So I am to die soon, then? Is that why you were here a week ago?"

"I'm not a Grim Reaper," Arthur lied weakly, his hands clenching into fists. "Fine; I'll admit I'm not alive, and I'll take responsibility for Ms. Parks, but I'm not a Grim Reaper."

Francis eyed him skeptically. "You may as well have just told me right now. You won't admit you're a liar unless you're trying to hide the larger lie."

"Don't talk about me like you know me," Arthur said. "We met once, and we've never had a decent conversation."

"I am an artist, Arthur. I make my living by paying attention to people, and mon cher, I see your type on a daily basis. You and your pride will only back down if you're afraid."

'Well, if he already knows, it's not like I can do anything. He's already damned,' he reasoned. "I'm not afraid for myself," Arthur hissed. "I'm afraid for you, you idiot. Your life is on the line, not mine."

Francis looked at him, likely trying to figure out if the Brit had finally snapped, or if he was being honest. "I'm right, then," he said, assuming the latter was correct.

Arthur shrugged, leaning back in the old chair. "No, but your close enough that I'm not going to bother correcting you. If you say anything, though, I will kill you. Just so you're aware."

"And you're afraid for me?" he asked coyly. "That's rather sweet of you. I didn't expect that from you. So are you going to be honest from now on? Tell me all of your secrets?"

"Why the hell would I do that? I still don't know you." Arthur grimaced; he was pretty much throwing the last ten years away because of this man. He didn't know why, and it was getting on his nerves.

Francis raised a brow. "Then get to know me. I'd like to know you, so why don't we make it a mutual thing?"

"Because it's completely useless," he argued. "What does it matter in the end?"

"It's not the length of the life, but what was done with it." A quick grin turned his lips. "So question for a question? That seems fair."

Arthur sighed. "Fine. Whatever. Ask away." It wasn't like it could get any worse at this rate.

"Am I going to die soon?" he asked bluntly.

Ok, it just got worse. He could probably lie, but then… Arthur was tired of lying. If Francis already knew, he may as well just tell him everything. "July fourteenth," he confirmed. "You're my last kill."

Something akin to devastation split his features. "That soon?" he asked softly.

"You have almost three months. That's plenty of time," Arthur disagreed. "Anything else you want to know about this topic while we're here?"

There was a lengthy pause as Francis thought. Panic was still the dominant emotion on his face, but Arthur could see he was trying to fight it. "Is there… Is there any way to avoid it?" he finally asked, his voice a near-inaudible whisper.

The punk felt genuine pity for the older man. He was faced with the prospect of his imminent demise, and it was obviously difficult for him. But, that wouldn't change the answer.

"No."


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** Thank you to all my new followers, favorites, etc., as well as my old ones ^_^ Really, getting those little notifications never ceases to make my day, and I seriously would hug you if I could.

Ah, also… Is there anything you guys want to see in this story? I mean, I'm a bit unsure of what I want these two to be doing while we're waiting for Francis' Death-Day… So if you have any ideas, or suggestions, kindly let me know. And any criticism is always welcome; I'm always looking to improve.

**Disclaimer:** Hetalia and its characters belong to Himaruya.

~X~

Arthur waited by the mouth of the alley, wondering if he made a mistake. Well, he was positive he had made a mistake. And he had made it worse by not telling Death about what he had done, and what Francis now knew.

Unfortunately, he was in the process of making the worst mistake since agreeing to the deal. He was waiting for Francis to finish drawing a young brunette boy and what looked like his older brother. For some stupid reason, Arthur had decided to come back, just like he promised last night.

Arthur occasionally glanced over to see how Francis was holding up. Not that he cared, he told himself. Just out of curiosity.

For what it was worth, Francis seemed to have recovered from the shock of last night. He was smiling, and chatting with the two boys as if they were old friends.

Though, Arthur could see the cracks in his façade. He saw the way that the blond was a little bit hunched over. It was odd, considering the two times Arthur had actually seen him, Francis had impeccable posture, like a musician or a dancer. He noted the way that those blue eyes seemed to stray a bit more than they probably should.

It was a small miracle Francis had even progressed to this point already. Last night, he had been a semi-hysterical wreck. All that composure had been shattered the moment he realized Arthur wasn't kidding, and that he was going to die.

Honestly, it had scared him out of his wits.

Arthur patiently waited until the two left with the finished portrait; the older had a wide smile on his face, while the younger just looked irritated. He eyed them closely, half-recognizing the younger boy. Not enough to be able to name him, but enough that he realized they knew each other.

"You came back," Francis stated, drawing Arthur's attention back to the abandoned alley. "I thought you would have vanished like a dream by now."

"I keep my promises," he returned with a slight shrug. "You seem better than last night."

Francis' answering smile was slightly strained. "Being informed of one's death is a rather difficult thing. Or do you not remember?"

Arthur grimaced as he walked down the worn pavement towards Francis. "I wouldn't know, I was never warned. Few people are, actually. It's sort of… Well, it's forbidden. I could easily be sent to hell for telling you."

Francis watched him carefully as Arthur took his now customary seat in the alley's niche. "Then why did you?" he asked. "Damnation seems a heavy price to pay, especially for some stranger you like to pretend you don't care for."

"You already figured me out," he answered. "There's no point in lying to someone who doesn't believe. Besides, I'm tired of all this lying and hiding in the shadows. It's been a long ten years of that. I'll be damned if I spend my last two months like this in that way."

The scrutiny continued. If anything it intensified by a tenth. "How old were you when you died? Ten? You don't look a day over twenty."

That brought Arthur a moment's pause. People didn't ask that. One's death was something that was never spoken of, and your life before your death was even more unmentionable. "I died when I was nineteen," he finally responded. "The dead don't age."

"Ever?"

His eyes firmly on the wall, Arthur shook his head. "It's a dream within a nightmare, being a teenager forever."

Something unfathomable reflected in Francis' eyes. "You've looked like this for a decade, and no one noticed?"

The answer was a painful 'no'. People rarely noticed Arthur, even when he was alive. But, Francis didn't need to know that. "Why do you care?" Arthur shot back. "Stop wasting all your questions. You only have six left for today."

"Someone has to care," Francis answered with forced lightness. "You are much too cautious; I should be able to ask you a couple of thousand questions. I have several I can 'waste'."

"That's a stupid reason, and idiotic logic," Arthur muttered. "You're going to regret it later on."

Francis didn't deign to point out that he wasn't going to get a 'later on'. "As I said, you are too cautious. Why should I care about 'later', when I have 'now'?"

"Because 'now' affects 'later'," Arthur retorted. "Did you ever consider that? You're going to be on your death-day, and you're going to realize every mistake you made. You are going to wish you didn't waste those questions, or that you called your family, or that you had never said something, and you will regret it forever; do you understand?!"

Now, Francis was staring openly at the teen. His eyes were wide with shock, and all arrogance his face usually held was lost. Finally, he managed to reply with a low voice, and a hint of worry. "This isn't about my death, is it? What is it that you regret so much?" he asked.

"Will you stop asking me these pointless questions? They won't get you anything," Arthur snapped.

At this moment, he hated the blond artist. He hated the useless queries, the way he always knew exactly what to ask to piss Arthur off, and especially those blue eyes that could see right through him.

"A question will gain me an answer," Francis replied. "Remember our deal? You will give me ten answers every single day, and in exchange I will not tell anyone about your 'predicament'."

Arthur cringed. "Ok, new rule. Don't ever call it a 'deal'. It's an 'arrangement'."

Francis sighed impatiently. "Does it really matter what I call it? In the end, it's really the same thing. Now, there are two questions that you have not answered. Really, has no one noticed you for the past decade, and what are you regretting?"

Thoughtlessly, Arthur pulled one of his knees to his chest. "It's not your business," he insisted. "My life isn't relevant to you. Why aren't you asking me questions that might possibly save you?"

Francis pulled out another sheet of paper. "I think you made it rather clear that there was no way to save me. Why should I bother with questions I know the answers to? It would be more 'worthless' than what I ask you."

"I wonder if you even care that you're going to die," he muttered. Arthur watched as the other started to sharpen a pencil. "What exactly are you doing, anyways?"

"Sketching you," he replied simply. "Contrary to what you think, I do care that I will be no more. However, it's inevitable, so I don't see the point in worrying about it. Now, unless you're going to answer my questions, don't speak. Don't move, either."

"I didn't agree to this," he protested. "Don't draw me again; I swear to God, I'll….!" Still, contrary to his words, he hadn't moved.

"It was a silent agreement," Francis said, a smirk barely visible. "You came to my corner, knowing what I do, and are in the chair that my muses take. Why do you care if I draw you?"

"That's your seventh question," Arthur pointed out.

"Yet, I only have four answers." The faint sound of pencil on paper started to fill the near-silent air for several minutes. "So? Why do you hate it so much? Anyone else would be pleased with the attention."

Arthur snorted. "In case you haven't noticed, I'm not 'anyone'." He shifted uncomfortably, ignoring Francis' 'tsk' of irritation. "I'm dead, remember?"

"You are still a person, heartbeat or no. Being dead is not a reason for anything. That is not an answer, so tell me 'why'."

He glared at Francis. "Why do you care? You're going to do as you please regardless."

Francis shrugged. "True, but it would be nice to know what you're thinking. I'm intrigued by how your mind works."

With a soft sigh, Arthur finally relented. "You said it yourself before doing the first one," he murmured. "There's no reason to be doing portraits of me. I look… I'm nothing anyone would care to look at. I have no proof you aren't just mocking me by doing these drawings." He ducked his head; refusing to look at the artist he could_ feel_ scrutinizing him.

"That you think I would do something like that," Francis breathed. "While I will fully admit you are not exactly a 'classic beauty', I would never dream of making you into anything less than you are. I may be many things, Arthur, but I am not intentionally cruel."

'Cruel, maybe not,' Arthur thought. 'But you're just as heartless as I am.' Truly, there was something off-putting about Francis. He took the on-coming death too well. He was making a mockery of the entire process, and it was rather disconcerting. Arthur would have been a wreck much longer than a day, and he doubted he would ever fully accept it.

"You have three more questions," Arthur reminded him quietly after several minutes of silence.

"I'll ask them later. Now hush, and let me draw. I'm almost out of light."

~X~

By the time Francis allowed him to move again, the sun was barely visible over the horizon. He didn't verbally release Arthur from his position, deigning instead to simply nod and pack up his supplies.

"Three more questions, and five more answers. That's where we stand, yes?" he confirmed.

Arthur nodded stiffly as he finally stood up. "Pick your questions, and I'll answer them."

"No fighting me this time? Because you still haven't answered two of my questions from earlier." Francis' smile was quick as ever as he offered a free hand to the Brit.

He quirked a brow. "I won't argue this time. I won't answer your question about what I'm… regretting, however. So ask your last three, and then I'll give you all of your answers. And I hope you aren't actually expecting me to hold your hand, because I'm not going to."

A mixture of hurt and amusement passed over his face before he placed the impassively arrogant mask back on. "My last three questions, then, are 'why would you think I would sketch you just to make fun of you', 'why do you refuse to look at my work', and 'why on earth wouldn't you take my hand'?"

Arthur had to take a moment to think, and put all the questions back in order. "I wasn't ignored as much as I was hiding. You seem the type who turns up their noses at anyone less than perfect; I won't look at your art I want to see myself the way you do. And I'm not taking your hand because I barely know you," he rattled off as concisely as he could.

Francis tilted his head as he processed all the answers. "You owe me one more answer," he stated. "Why are you so opposed to knowing me?"

A bitter smile graced Arthur's lips. "Because in two months, you'll be dead. Why should I get to know someone I'm going to kill?"

"The same reason I decided to get to know someone who's going to kill me," Francis answered promptly. "Curiosity."


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note:** Ok, I know I was supposed to put this out a while ago, but… Well, I had a bit of writer's block. I'm sorry; I'll try to keep it from happening again OTL

Anyways, thank you everyone who added this to their alerts, favorited it, and reviewed. It makes me happy to see you guys like it. Oh, and one last thing:

Vampire Catfish1: I will definitely schedule a date for these two in the near future; thanks for the suggestion ^^

**Disclaimer: **Hetalia and its characters are property of Himaruya

~X~

He honestly wanted to shoot Francis right now and be done with it. Curiosity his ass; the artist was just trying to screw him over. The only reason he was asking questions was because Francis was bored, and Arthur was his new 'toy'.

Arthur could hear footsteps against the concrete before the newest 'muse' left, completely ignoring the fact that he was standing there. He bit back a small grin; she was exactly the type of person he expected to be there. A young woman with blond ringlets and light eyes, whose stiletto heels clacked against the sidewalk.

It only took a few moments for Francis to follow her out onto the street. The moment he saw Arthur, he smirked. "Back again? Honestly, I thought you would have disappeared. Maybe you're just as curious as I am."

Arthur scowled. "I can't have you telling the world about me," he muttered. "I need to answer ten of your questions every day, remember? That's the only reason I'm here."

"Right, of course," Francis agreed. "This is for you, by the way. A token of appreciation, if you will."

He immediately startled the instant he could feel Francis pressing something into his hand. A small twinge of pain shot up his hand, causing Arthur to wince again. "What the fuck is this?" He ignored the disgusted gaze from a mother and her two children as they walked past.

Francis' eyes flicked to Arthur's hand before meeting his eyes again. "Ah, sorry. I forgot to remove the thorns," Francis said. "Does it hurt?"

With a glare, he shook his head. "I've had worse. I died, remember?" Finally, he eyed the object in his hand, and his blood ran cold. It had to be a joke. "Why the hell did you get me a rose?"

"As I said, it's a token of appreciation," he murmured, pulling it from the younger's grip. "You're bleeding."

"People don't give roses for that. Especially not red ones," Arthur snapped. He could feel the flush across his cheeks, and it pissed him off.

"It reminded me of you," he said as he examined the minor injury. "I don't see why you're so upset about it; it's only a flower."

"'Reminded you of me'?" Arthur repeated incredulously.

"It doesn't look too severe," Francis commented. "I don't think it's worth any sort of treatment. Unless you want me to kiss it better." He winked roguishly.

With chagrin, Arthur yanked his hand away. "Don't treat me like a child. I'm still older than you, technically. And you haven't answered my question."

"That sounds familiar. Maybe some of your questions should be left hanging for a change." Once again, he pulled Arthur's hand towards himself, and placed a chaste kiss against the tiny wound.

Arthur glared at the Frenchman, shoving him away. "Fine. See if I care. Ask your ten questions so I can leave. I don't want to be in your presence for any longer than I have to."

For a moment, silence hung between the pair. "I'll ask ten questions if you do the same," Francis bargained. "I prefer the 'answer for an answer' deal we had the second time we met."

"It wasn't a deal," Arthur interrupted automatically. "It was an arrangement."

Francis rolled his eyes as he passed the rose back to the punk. "Why do you have such an aversion to that word? I swear you tense up every time it's mentioned."

Panic shot through his system for a millisecond. There was no way Francis had already picked up on that. "I do not," he argued quietly. "I just don't like you calling this something it's not. That's all."

"I don't want you to lie to me," he chastised. "I see the way you react. I'll answer your question about the rose if you tell me why."

Bottle-green eyes fell to the rose that, once again, was clasped in his hands. It was nearly perfect; velvety red petals barely opened, a long stem marred by thorns, and even a few lush green leaves clung to it. There was no way that he was comparable in any way to this beautiful thing.

"That's what Death called it," he found himself saying, still enraptured by the rose. "That word sealed my fate. 'Let's make a deal. I'm sure you won't regret it,'" he repeated bitterly. "What we have isn't a deal, Francis. It's just an arrangement. There's a difference. One I intend to keep very clear."

He could feel the blue-eyed stare, but elected not to meet it. It wasn't like Francis was looking at him with anything but amusement.

"I don't understand," Francis finally admitted. "Nothing you say ever adds up. You're a Grim Reaper, but you're not. You're older than me, but younger. You have a 'deal' with Death. You only have a short while left. You answer my questions, but you never really do. Your answers aren't ever answers enough."

Arthur bit down on the inside of his lip. "Are those all questions?" he asked cautiously. "You'll only have four left for today."

"Those are all statements," Francis said with a soft chuckle. "And I owe you an answer."

"I'm not playing this 'answer for an answer' game," Arthur retorted. "Ask your questions so I can leave."

The rose was plucked from his hands, drawing a small cry of protest from the teen. Automatically, his fingers tried to close around the stem, but met only air and his own skin.

Almost thoughtlessly, Francis began to spin it between his forefinger and thumb. "It reminds me of you because of its thorns," he stated. "A rose is a beautiful thing. Although, one must be careful when handling one because of those tiny little spikes. Just as I feel I should be careful with you." He paused, and smiled. "I can tell you're more dangerous than you look. I've watched you kill before. Which lends to my next question: why do you kill with arrows? It's more than a bit archaic, wouldn't you agree?"

Arthur could feel the tension rising. As oblivious as Francis seemed, he was sure the artist wasn't ignorant to it, either. Unfortunately, his pride made him determined to stick this out. "The Assassin doesn't choose the weapon," he stated. "I didn't just pick it up; it was given to me. Are you going to keep that stupid rose?"

His lips pursed thoughtfully. "I might. You don't seem to appreciate it anyways." Contradictorily, as he spoke Francis took one of Arthur's hands and pressed the offending object into it once more. This time, he was more mindful of the thorns. "Is there a reason you're so offended by this?"

He couldn't bring himself to glare at the artist beside him. Thoughtlessly, his fingers trailed across the long stem, reveling in the smooth texture of it. "Red roses are meant for lovers. I don't know why you don't understand that we aren't even friends. A gift like this is so far from appropriate that it makes me question your intelligence."

Francis scoffed. "You keep saying that I am nothing to you. You keep pretending that you don't like me, and that you're only here for your own gain." Graphite-stained fingers reached to grasp Arthur's chin, forcing him to meet the blue-eyed gaze. "You aren't fooling anyone. So stop pretending, and be honest with me."

Arthur jerked away from his touch. "Honest? You want me to be honest with you?" he seethed. "Fine. I hate you. You are an annoyance, and a bloody flirt, and I can't wait until I can kill you!"

Amusement sparked in the Frenchman's eyes. "Now we're getting somewhere. That's exactly what I wanted to hear from you."


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: **Ok, I'm really sorry about the delays between chapters. I've been suffering writers block for these two recently. I'll try a lot harder to keep these chapters coming out twice a week, but if I don't, I really do feel terrible about it.

Thank you to all of those who read this, and who add it to their alerts, favorites, and/or reviewed. I hope you continue to enjoy my work.

**Disclaimer:** Hetalia is property of Himaruya

~X~

The new routine of seeing Francis was slowly beginning to kill him. Having to see that smug face, and hear that heavy accent every single day was beginning to mess with Arthur's head in a highly unpleasant way.

It was made worse by the fact that, ever since the rose incident two weeks ago, Arthur was beginning to notice the most mundane things about him. He noticed the variations of where the charcoal covered his fingers, the quiet humming while he thought, even the minute shifts in his tone of voice.

Of course, he was making damned sure that Francis remained unaware of that fact. If he had even the slightest clue that Arthur felt anything but annoyance towards him, the assassin may as well hang himself.

"See something you like, mon petit lapin?" Francis asked. A triumphant smirk twisted his lips.

Arthur's gaze instantly hardened into a glare at the words. He hadn't even realized he had been staring at the Parisian. Again. "More like something I hate. And what did I tell you about calling me by your stupid French nicknames?"

"To never stop doing it," Francis returned promptly. The lie rang light as truth, though they both knew better. "It's not like you actually know what I'm calling you; why bother getting upset over it?"

"Because I _do_ know what you're calling me," he retorted. "How do you know I can't speak you're idiotic language? That's right, you don't. You don't know a damn thing about me, despite your incessant questioning."

Glad to have sparked a reaction, his smirk shifted slightly into something more genuine. "Your British pride would prevent you from ever speaking decent French," Francis argued. "I think I know you better than you know yourself, I might add. You're just a bit dense and don't realize how much you're telling me."

Arthur felt a light flush dust his cheeks. "I know exactly what I'm saying, but I think you're too stupid to understand it. Thinking that I don't even know a few of your foreign words," he cursed under his breath. "You didn't start with them until last week. You're just trying to mess with me by taking some of your moronic nicknames and then translating them. I'm not an imbecile."

Slender fingers tugged at the frayed edges of Arthur's shirt. "You have everyone fooled on that," he retorted. "With your fake torn up clothes, and obvious attention-seeking look, you look like someone who's irrevocably stupid."

He was half-tempted to beat the man within an inch of his life. If he remembered correctly, so long as Francis remained alive, he wasn't in breach of contract. "What part of 'I'm stuck like this' don't you understand? I don't enjoy running around with this green in my hair, or kohl beneath my eyes. Frankly, it makes me feel like the bloody fool I was when I died."

Francis' head tipped appraisingly, and Arthur realized just how much he had admitted to. He had basically told the artist that he hated who he was ten years ago, which would lead to the logical conclusion that Arthur hated himself now.

That was another thing that Francis didn't need to know. Especially when the blond would probably laugh at him, and belittle him further.

"I still don't believe you understand a word of French," he finally said. His hands still hadn't left the torn up edges of his shirtsleeve. "Someone like you could never understand the refinement of the language."

Arthur scoffed, shaking off his grip. "Says the penniless street artist." Mentally, however, he was thanking Francis for not making fun of him. "Look, can we get on with this? It's nearly dark and you've only asked one damn question."

A short silence fell between them, broken only by a soft sigh from Francis. Tense as Arthur was, he refused to move, or actually hint at how awkward it was beginning to get between them.

"What would you do if I never finished asking?" he finally asked, shattering the moment. "If I forced you to just stay near me until I died because I only asked nine questions a day?"

Arthur's mouth twitched into a half-grimace. "I can't force you to do anything," he admitted. "But I can guarantee I wouldn't make it a pleasant experience for you."

When cool fingers brushed against the back of his hand, Arthur instinctively flinched away. Looking over, he was met with a set of bemused, crystal-blue eyes.

"Walk with me," Francis insisted, trying once again to take hold of the younger's hand.

Arthur felt he didn't have much of a choice but to comply for two reasons. One, he was still obligated to answer another eight questions today; two, he didn't actually want to leave. He was half-intrigued by the new physical aspect of the normally distant artist. It wasn't quite on the level of being disturbing, but it was enough that Arthur couldn't help but be interested in the 'why' of it.

"What about your things?" he asked. He subconsciously allowed his fingers to twine with Francis'.

The artist easily shrugged off the younger's concerns. "No one's going to take them. It will only be for an hour or so; I'm sure they'll be fine."

That was slightly disconcerting to Arthur. Every other artist he had ever met was highly protective of the tools of their trade. The fact that Francis would just up and leave his, no matter how briefly, struck him as odd.

However, he didn't question it. What Francis did was none of his business.

The streets were pretty much completely deserted by this time of night. The only light easily visible were the golden pools from the streetlights that dotted the road.

Any tension that may have been between them earlier had multiplied ten-fold once contact had been established. Silently, they walked side by side; the pavement almost soundless beneath their feet.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, their pace slowed almost imperceptibly. Almost unconsciously, Arthur tightened his hold on Francis' hand.

"For being dead, you're skin is rather warm," he noted. "Honestly, if I didn't know any better, I would never think you were anything but alive."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "It's because I'm almost free," he said. "I'm two kills from human. You can't expect me to go from completely dead to completely alive in one quick moment. It's a process."

"Does that mean you were like an actual ghost to begin with?" the artist prodded. Francis' directionless meandering was leading them to the edge of the city.

"Took me a dozen kills to get a solid form again," he confirmed. "Thirty before I could feel anything. I didn't actually regain all my senses until seventy. Maybe eighty deaths in, I got my heartbeat back."

There was no rational reason behind Arthur giving out this timeline. Francis likely didn't care. But the night was beginning to unnerve the Brit, for some unnamable reason.

All he ended up getting in response was a quiet hum.

For what seemed like hours, they walked in companionable silence. The tension seemed to give way into a sense of familiarity. There was no need for either of them to say anything; there was no explanations, no questions, nothing. And Arthur found he was all right with that.

Soon, the stars were all the light they had for light. The city had almost completely disappeared behind them. All that was around were a series of buildings long-since abandoned.

"You get one wish," Francis started. "What do you ask for?"

Arthur managed to answer without pause. It was a question he had often considered in the past. "Nothing. I don't need a wish to make what I want reality."

"You wouldn't wish for your life back?" he asked. The taller blond eased them to a stop in front of an abandoned building.

"What part of 'I don't need a wish to make it happen' didn't you hear?" Arthur asked in return. "Why do you think I kill people? If I do, I'll get to come back to life. There is nothing I want that I can't get for myself." He made a half-hearted attempt to break the stand-still, but realized it wasn't going to actually work.

"If you were to make that wish, you wouldn't have to kill me," Francis murmured lowly. "You wouldn't even make a wish for that?"

That thought had never crossed Arthur's mind. "I don't see the sense in wishing for the impossible," he finally said, evading the question. "If I don't kill you, someone else will. Once on the Kill List, there's no way off."

"It's a wish, cher. Anything is possible." There was a pleading note in his voice.

Arthur could almost see the unasked question in those eyes: 'If you could save me, would you?'

He wanted to say 'yes'. In all honesty, he would have saved them all, given the chance. But for Francis, he likely would have gone farther. It was getting to the point where Arthur was beginning to question his resolve.

But, Francis wasn't ever going to know about that. "Death trumps a wish," he said. "There's no point in wishing for the impossible."

The Frenchman's eyes were intent on his, likely searching for the truth Arthur wouldn't say. After a moment, a sigh passed his lips. "We should head back," he said. "It's late."

It was a bittersweet victory for the punk. He managed to keep his secrets, but the hopelessness that permeated the air was nearly unbearable. "I really am sorry," he offered as he pulled away from Francis' grasp. "But, we both know that doesn't change anything."


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note:**All right, it looks like I'm finally updating in a timely manner ^-^ Also, I apologize for the short chapters as of late. That's the next problem I'm trying to fix. Again, any criticism is always welcome. I can't fix anything if I don't know what I'm doing wrong.

Thank you to everyone who read, alerted, and added Deals with Death to their favorites. I appreciate every one of you.

**Disclaimer:**Hetalia and its characters belong to Himaruya.

~X~

There was something innately disturbing about watching a dead man. Fortunately, he was currently surrounded by the familiar scent of cigarette smoke that lent the slightest touch of comfort to him. But it was still disconcerting to know that in a short period of time, this man would be no more.

Peter Michaels was in the middle of a smoke break. He had barely acknowledged the teen as he lit up, and took a drag. His movements were shaky, and unsure. Likely, he had been trying to quit smoking in an attempt to lengthen his life. Brown eyes darted about nervously, yet he remained oblivious to the green-eyed boy next to him.

Arthur couldn't help but pity him. When three twelve rolled around, this man would be dead. Surely he was leaving behind a family, and friends. There were people who would miss him, and mourn his loss.

Peter was so unaware of his fate that it made something twist in Arthur's gut. It was sick, knowing the future of someone. Did actual killers feel this way? Did they look at their victims and feel completely disturbed?

As soon as the cigarette had been reduced to nothing but ash on the pavement, he walked past the teen without a second glance. Only a few minutes more until the punk would enter the structure, and carry out his second to last hit.

"You have a death here, as well?"

Arthur's head snapped up, meeting the light violet eyes of Ivan Braginski. Even though it was mid-May, he was still clothed in the long coat and scarf he was killed in. Arthur could even see the bullet hole near his heart. It was unnerving that Arthur hadn't heard him approach. Once his composure was regained, a bitter grin spread across his face. "Peter Michaels," he confirmed.

The tall Russian laughed quietly. "Only one? I am taking seven here. You're not working as hard as you used to. Is this life driving you mad already? You've barely been at this for ten years."

"Not all of us have debts in the quadruple digits," he returned. "I'm two away from free. How many more do you have to kill? Another hundred?"

"My poor little Englishman," Ivan chuckled. "Not even understanding what it means to be fighting for someone other than yourself. Truly selfish, truly sad."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

The pair eyed three men clothed entirely in black as they pushed open the door to the bank. The guns they carried were barely concealed.

Ivan didn't answer, electing to check the time on his pocket watch. "We should enter soon; the shootout is to begin in a few minutes."

His brow furrowed. "Right," he agreed, pulling out an arrow from behind his back. "How long is this supposed to take anyways?"

"I'll be here for fifteen minutes. I don't know how long it will take you." A wide grin tugged at his lips. "Well, shall we begin?" he asked, holding the door open for the teen.

Arthur nodded brusquely as he entered. His eyes were locked on Peter Michaels as the chaos began.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ivan's grin widen as he pulled out a sink pipe, and advanced into the bank; ready to swing.

~X~

Nearly five hours after the shootings at the bank, Arthur finally managed to get to Francis' alleyway. He spent nearly an hour standing in pools of blood in a complete daze, and the other four alternatively walking across town, and overcome with nausea that left him immobilized.

Arthur had never worked in Ivan's proximity, and it wasn't an experience he ever wanted to go through again. His weapon was brutal, violent, and borderline barbaric. The method that Ivan used on his kills was equally appalling.

He managed to make it to the entrance of the side-street, but failed to advance any further.

A small thought nagged at the back of this mind as he looked at the Frenchman. 'Will I be able to do that to Francis? I've been having enough trouble with these strangers. Will I be able to end someone I know?'

"You're running later than usual," Francis stated testily, as if sensing the presence of the Brit at the mouth of the alley. "I was about to think you were backing out of our deal."

Arthur didn't move. He listened to the Frenchman's tirade completely frozen. His eyes were fixed blankly on the artist's form as he busied himself with packing his supplies.

"Honestly, I thought you weren't going to show up today. Do you realize what time it is? Nearly eight. There's only an hour or so left of daylight, and you didn't bother to show up earlier. I told you to be here in the afternoon because I wanted to draw you again. Are you trying to punish me for last night? Because I swear to god—" Blue eyes finally flicked over to look at Arthur for the first time that day.

He stopped in the middle of his sentence, dropping his case of pencils to the ground. "Mon dieu," he breathed as the image absorbed into his mind.

Fine tremors wracked through the frail body. Bottle-green eyes were wide; glazed over with shock. Dried blood caked the left side of his face, and throat. He looked like he was on the verge of tears, and his bow hung limply from one of his hands.

"Arthur, what _happened_to you?"

Slowly, he shook his head. Arthur doubted that he would be able to even form a proper response with his mind running rampant.

Francis hurried over to him, fussing over him like a mother hen. "Come here, cher. Sit down. Christ, you look like you've seen a ghost!" The artist continued to tut over him; all but forcing him into the old wooden chair. The weapon was easily slid from his loose grasp, and placed on the ground as the Frenchman scrutinized him with worry-filled eyes.

Arthur remained impassive, still in shock from earlier today. His expression still set in that vaguely horrified, yet somehow blank expression it settled in when the first gunshot rang out.

Carefully, slim fingers trailed across the bloodstains on the teen's cheek. "You're not hurt," he said, relief palpable in his voice. Slight tinges of panic remained in his expression, but most of it washed away at the realization.

Arthur's vision blurred as his eyes filled with tears. "Eight people are dead," he choked out. "One injured dead person hardly matters."

"Stop calling yourself dead." Francis attempted to clean some of the blood off the younger's face; his brows furrowed in concentration. "You aren't injured, but it still matters."

Almost mechanically, Arthur took hold of his wrist to stop him. "I killed one of them," he stated, hoping it would get through. "Stop trying to be nice to a murderer, Francis. It's screwing with my head. I can't think straight." A few tears trickled down his face; turning crimson as they crossed paths with the bloodstains.

His fingers were pried away, and Francis quickly brushed away the tears. "Arthur Kirkland, if you keep calling yourself a killer, I may have to slap you. You are a teenage boy who has just gotten slightly lost in their life. You are not evil, or anything like that. You wouldn't do this if you didn't have to. Now let me clean you up; the amount of blood on you is sickening."

Arthur glanced at his hands and arms; they were spattered with the blood of Ivan's victims. "None of it's mine," he said.

Francis snagged a bottle of water, pouring some of its contents onto his hand. "That doesn't matter right now. What concerns me is why you look absolutely terrified. You weren't like this when you killed that girl a while back."

Arthur winced as the artist began to scrub off the dried blood with his bare hand. "Don't… You'll get blood on you."

The red slowly began to stain the artist's hands, but most of it was still smeared across the face of the assassin. "That's the least of my concerns right now. Tell me what happened. It will help you feel better."

His brow furrowed. "I told you. I killed someone. That's all there is."

"When you killed the redhead girl, you barely batted an eyelash," Francis contradicted. "That can't be all. I've yet to see anything faze you like this." Gently, he continued to wipe the dried blood away. "I realize we may not get along very well, but I still worry about you. So talk to me."

Again, Arthur shook his head, trying to block the images out.

Francis brushed strands of green-tinted hair from Arthur's forehead. "Come to my home," he insisted. "I don't want you alone tonight. We can talk there, and maybe get this stuff off of you."

The teenager couldn't find any resolve to say no. He compliantly, if shakily, followed the artist. The only thing that kept him grounded at this point was the pressure of Francis' hand over his as they walked the short distance to the other's apartment.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note:**Thanks to everyone who reviewed, favorited, and/or added Deals with Death to their Story Alerts. It really makes me happy that you guys enjoy this so much ^_^

Ok, a side-note before this chapter gets started: if I were to continue this little AU with different pairings, would any of you be interested? I'd appreciate any input on this idea.

**Disclaimer:**Hetalia and its respective characters are property of Himaruya.

~X~

Francis' apartment was surprisingly warm, even when compared to the near-summer night. That was the only thing Arthur could definitively say about it in his still half-aware state. It was warm, but cold at the same time. There was an innate sense that something was missing; something that kept it from feeling like it was truly 'home'.

He didn't notice the lack of personal belongings, or the sparse furniture. Nor did he see that the only decorations were a few portraits that hung loosely on the eastern wall. All he knew was that it was warm, yet cold, and smelled of roses.

Arthur ended up seated on an old wooden trunk as Francis resumed cleaning the blood from the teen. Neither of them said a word. Silence seemed to best fit the atmosphere the two of them created.

A damp washcloth wiped slow circles across the Brit's cheek and jaw. Arthur could feel as the dried blood was removed, and it helped regain his sense of sanity. If only slightly.

"Quiet doesn't suit you, Arthur," Francis murmured. "You need to speak if I'm supposed to know what you're thinking."

Green eyes firmly remained on his finely trembling hands. "Maybe you aren't supposed to know," he retorted listlessly. However, instead of remaining wordless, Arthur found words falling from his lips. "It's _different_, being like this," he said slowly. "It's this overwhelming sense of not being human anymore. You know things no one else does. You see people, and know things about them, and it's disturbing. Being around _you_is disturbing."

The blond man didn't say a word in response. He just continued to gently remove the stains from the teen's pale skin.

A soft scowl crossed his lips. "You make me feel human," he continued. "And I hate you for that. I'm not human. I'm not even alive. You treat me like I am, but I'm not, Francis. I'm not real anymore."

The cloth moved to his throat, drawing a light shudder from the teen. "The fact that you're having such a hard time with all of this means you are human," he contradicted softly. "I can see it so clearly in your eyes. You, who claims dead and imagined, may be the most human, and the most real I have ever seen."

Arthur flinched. That was the last thing he needed to hear at this moment. If he was, in fact, human… That would make him a monster by any definition. "If this is what it means to be human, then I'll gladly stay dead. It's a sick humanity, and I don't want it."

"Now, now, cher… We both know that's a lie," Francis chided.

Again, they lapsed into silence. The only sound was their quiet breath, and the nearly inaudible sound of the washcloth on Arthur's skin.

Every few minutes, Francis would have to leave and rinse the blood out of the washcloth. Arthur had no idea that there was so much of it on him. The sense of revulsion heightened every time it was cleaned out. There was too much.

He was very attentive, which Arthur noticed especially when he moved to his hands. Francis spent quite a while wiping the red stains from his knuckles, and the creases of his palms. Painstakingly, the Frenchman examined his hands nearly a dozen times before he was content.

"Will you tell me what happened?" he asked as he walked off to wash the blood from the fabric for the last time. "You seem a touch better now, but with you, I'm sure that doesn't really mean much. You have the innate tendency to lie with your expression."

Arthur's eyes fell to his hands. They had stopped trembling the second Francis touched them, he realized. "There's nothing to tell," he murmured. "I overreacted. It was just another death. I just… I've never worked with another Assassin before. It was disconcerting, for want of a better word."

"Disconcerting is when you end up a little dazed for a few minutes. Not when you're a near-wreck for hours," Francis rebutted. "If I were to choose your words, I would say you were frightened."

"You would be too," Arthur snapped, glaring at the artist. "If you watched seven people get bludgeoned as they were shot to death, you would be just as scared as I was. I'm not… I couldn't… No one should have to see that; human or no!" By the end, Arthur found that the tremors that had been confined to his hands now wracked through his entire body.

Francis stared blankly at him for a few moments, absorbing the outburst before kneeling in front of assassin. "I know, Arthur," he sighed. "It's not fair for you, is it?" Gently, he placed a chaste kiss on Arthur's forehead. "But you're with me now. You don't have to be scared anymore."

Blood rushed to his cheeks; tinting them a pale pink as he shoved the Frenchman away. "What the hell? Why the hell would you…?"

If he had any qualms with being shoved away, it didn't show. He just resumed his position in front of the Brit. "The same reason I do anything for you, mon lapin," he replied easily. "There's no reason to throw a fit over something so simple."

"You're a dead man walking," he muttered under his breath. "You couldn't hold your own with an Assassin if your life depended on it. Which it does, by the way."

"If it's for you, I wouldn't mind," Francis said with a slight smile.

Arthur's fists tensed. "The way you talk…" He stopped, and shook his head. It wasn't relevant. Besides, there was no way Francis was saying what he thought he was saying. "You should have just left me on the streets. Anyone else would have."

"In case you haven't been paying attention, I don't fear you. It doesn't matter to me if you're going to cause my death in a few short weeks. To me, you are a boy who needs something to hold on to. I'm willing to be that piece of sanity in your life, if you don't mind being that spark of humanity in mine."

His flush darkened. "You're speaking nonsense. Sanity, humanity, I don't understand a bloody word you're saying."

"You're just pretending like you don't understand," Francis contradicted. "I'll be blunt, then. I will stay by your side until my death, if you do the same for me. Is that better?"

Arthur glared at him, trying to figure out the inner workings of the artist's mind. "I don't get you in the slightest," he finally stated. "You take me into your home, ask me ceaseless questions, ask me to stay by you for the next month, and you say these _things _that make absolutely no sense. Why? Why do you torment me like this? I can't get you out of my god damned _head_anymore!"

Francis hummed sympathetically. "How sad… How do you live in a world where mere things like this leave you so hopelessly confused? It's simple, cher. I do these things because I care, and I'm selfish enough to force that upon you. Now does it make sense?" As he spoke, he wound his arms around the younger's waist; resting his chin on Arthur's bony shoulder.

He couldn't even bring himself to physically push Francis away. After everything, he was too exhausted to even move. "I still hate you," he offered weakly.

A quiet chuckle rang in his ear. "Shame, Arthur. Because I quite like you. But, you never answered me earlier." Francis gently pressed his lips against the fabric covering Arthur's shoulder.

"You didn't ask a question, you idiot," Arthur retorted.

Another quick kiss was placed on Arthur's cheek. "If you stay with me until my dying day, then I will stay with you."

"That's a statement, not a question."

A slender finger was placed against the teen's lips as Francis drew back; crystal eyes intent on emerald green. "You didn't let me finish, mon cher. I will bring you a shred of sanity, if you show me your humanity. Every single day until we are forced to part. I can give you a bed to sleep in, food to eat, and a bit of comfort as you live out your final days as a Reaper. But in return, I ask that you let me recreate you in my art, allow me to hold you when you're afraid, and remind me what it is to be real. Do we have a deal?"

There was an automatic flinch at the final word that Francis deigned to ignore as he waited for the punk to verbalize his response. With trembling hands, Arthur took Francis' wrist to move his hand away.


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's Note: **Thanks to everyone who read, favorited, reviewed, and/or added this to their story alerts. It really makes me happy whenever I get those little notes about my 'child'."

**Disclaimer:** Hetalia and its characters are property of Himaruya.

~X~

"I don't…" The teen took a shaky breath before managing to reply. "If I hear you say the word 'deal' one more time, I will make your life miserable," Arthur muttered, attempting to return to normalcy. His glare was directed at the floor, and could feel the warmth of blood on his cheeks. "I don't even know why you want me here, but…"

An almost-smirk began to form on the artist's lips. "Is that a 'yes', then?"

At that moment, Arthur realized that Francis still had one of his arms wrapped around his waist. He realized that his knees were on either side of the blond, and, to an outsider, their positioning looked rather… compromising. "I mean, I don't really have a reason to decline," he hurriedly said, attempting to put space between their bodies. "It's… I mean, you aren't asking anything terribly outlandish, I suppose."

Francis snickered softly. He seemed a bit to comfortable with how they were arranged, in Arthur's opinion.

"You're going to have to say it, cher," he prompted. "None of this dancing around the issue. Yes or no."

The bottle-green glower shifted to focus on the Frenchman. "Are you really going to play this game?" he asked. Seeing Francis' grin widen, he cursed lowly. "Fine. 'Yes. I agree to your little arrangement'. Happy?"

"I'll be happier when you're still here in the morning," he replied with a Cheshire smirk. "But, for now, yes."

A frown turned his lips. "As if I have anywhere else to go." Again, he shoved the Parisian away, pulling his knees to his chest.

He rolled his eyes at Arthur's stubbornness. "From what I've gathered, that never mattered before. You've been without a home for ten years. Unless," Francis trailed off. His brow furrowed for a moment.

"If I had a choice, I wouldn't have been living outside for all these years," Arthur improvised. Truth was, he only minded over the winter during the last several years. He couldn't feel the cold before, and sleep tended to avoid him anyways. The only thing that Francis was potentially fixing was his eternal boredom.

Francis' gaze was intent on Arthur's. "It's more than that," he insisted. "I'm sure there's more to this than convenience."

Arthur huffed in irritation. "There's not. Stop making it seem like there's anything here. I'm nothing but your Assassin, and you're nothing but my victim." He knocked his head against his knees, wincing slightly at the pain. "I'm just tired. I'm tired, and I don't want to argue with you. It's just easier to let you have your way."

"You make it sound as if I'm completely unreasonable," Francis sighed. "If you said 'no', I would have let you leave. Enough choices have been taken from you. There's another reason, Arthur, I'm sure of it. You don't seem the type who just does things for no reason. You think too much for that."

"I used to," Arthur corrected. "When I was alive, I did nothing but contemplate my actions and their consequences. But that was when I was _alive_. You keep forgetting that I don't have a life, that I don't have any choices. There's nothing for me to think about anymore. I may have been like that ten years ago, but things are different now."

An uncharacteristic grimace turned his lips. "You don't grasp that losing a life doesn't change who you are. So why did you say 'yes'? I know you had a reason, and I think I deserve to know what it is. Would you not agree?"

A sharp glare pierced through Francis. "No. I wouldn't. You asked me to stay, and I agreed. That's all you need to know. Why do you insist that I agreed out of anything but ease? If I knew I would be subjected to this, maybe I would have left."

A tired smile crossed his face. "You wouldn't have walked away," he said softly, confidently. "You many not realize it, but I do." Slowly, he reached out to twine his fingers with the teen's. "Arthur…"

Realization crashed down around him. "No," he said, instantly pulling away. "Stop it; just… Just stop."

"Why?"

Arthur tried to make himself as small as possible; wrapping his arms around his legs while warily eyeing the artist. It was such a simple question, 'why'. So why was it so difficult for Arthur to answer? His mind quickly supplied an answer: 'Because you're too scared to admit that you don't want him to stop.'

The silence dragged on as the Brit contemplated the gravity of that thought. It would be terrible if that were true, he tried to convince himself. Disastrous, even. "What happened to giving me a choice?" he finally asked in return. "I don't want you touching me. I don't want you prying into my life. Why can't you accept that?"

Francis' answer chilled him to the bone, and he hated the artist for knowing. "Because I know you're lying."

Arthur's eyes widened and he loosened his hold on his knees automatically. Francis shouldn't be that insightful; he shouldn't see through the Assassin so easily.

He sighed quietly. "It's late," the artist stated. "We can continue this in the morning."

The teen didn't even bother arguing. He just allowed himself to be led to Francis' bedroom without complaint.

~X~

Waking up in an actual bed was a foreign feeling to Arthur. Foreign, but in a pleasant way.

It was ridiculously soft; Arthur could almost feel himself sinking into the mattress. The covers were comfortably heavy around his shoulders and back, though they smelled heavily of some cologne he never noticed Francis wore.

As soon as consciousness began to break through, the first thing Arthur actually realized was that he could feel one of Francis' hands clasped gently over one of his own.

His eyes fluttered open, allowing the Assassin to look at Francis' still-sleeping face, mere inches from his own. He bit down on the inside of his cheek as he debated retreating and pushing the Frenchman out of his own bed in retaliation.

In the end, however, all he ended up doing was flipping his hand over so that his palm was against the artist's. As long as he was pretending to be asleep, Arthur could allow himself to at least drop the pretense that he despised the man.

Once again, he allowed his eyelids to close. There was no thought of what his actions meant. It was too early for Arthur to consider the gravity of taking his hand. At the moment, he could care less for the remarks Francis was bound to make when he woke.

Slowly, he drifted back to sleep. His body automatically curled closer to Francis' warmth, and he didn't let go of his hand.

Francis would surely give him hell later, but why should Arthur bother with the consequences? It wasn't as if anything dire could come from it. Or, nothing dire that he could foresee in his sleep-muddled mind.


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note:** I am so incredibly sorry. Everything kind of crashed all at once, and the updating really suffered |||OTL I ended up getting a bad case of strep throat, and then Anime Banzai… I'm really sorry. I should be in the clear for quite a while, so I'm really hoping this doesn't happen again. I apologize for making you guys wait so long.

Also, I noticed I mistakenly skipped an entire month. I went back and fixed it all, so be aware that it is actually May, and not June. Sorry for any confusion.

Thank you to everyone who reviewed, favorited, and/or added this to their story alerts, and thank you for your patience ^_^

**Disclaimer:** Hetalia and its characters are property of Himaruya

~X~

The second time Arthur woke up, he let go of the artist's hand like it was on fire; his cheeks flaming. The implications of what that could mean had rushed into his mind as his eyes flicked over to Francis, praying that he wasn't awake yet. Arthur would probably never hear the end of it if Francis knew what the he had done. He could hear the arrogant teasing, and see the smirk that would surely grace Francis' lips.

Of course, Arthur thought it would be worth it just to feel the warm pressure against his palm for even a few moments more. All the torment Francis could inflict on him would be worth it.

When his gaze found the other, however, he relaxed. The artist was asleep; his face peaceful and lacking any hint of even the slightest worry. He looked… shockingly younger when he was like this. Arthur never realized how the blonde's face was carefully guarded with easy-looking smiles and dangerous smirks. There was something inexplicably raw about the tranquility that graced his aristocratic features at this moment.

In that moment, he could almost see why Francis drew portraits. Arthur very nearly wanted to look at that exact expression for hours. Not in the harsh reality of a photograph, but the delicate lines, and quality of a roughly shaded pencil.

He could watch that face for hours, he thought. With a faint smile, Arthur silently slipped away from the bedroom. By the looks of it, Francis would likely be sleeping for quite a while longer. Still, he didn't want to risk being caught staring just in case he was wrong.

Sunlight struggled through the blinds of what may have been the only window in the apartment. It provided just enough light for Arthur to easily see all of the things he had overlooked last night in his state of shock.

There wasn't much, he noticed. A handful of photographs, a couple of drawings, and some furniture that looked terribly out of place. It was almost as if these things were all second-hand. The few things that looked like they definitively belonged to Francis were just a few portraits he may have drawn.

He was fighting the constant sense of being an unwelcome guest in a strange home. Arthur couldn't help but feel like he was invading Francis' privacy when he examined his artwork, or looked at the people in his photographs.

With a sigh, he ended up settling himself on the countertop of the artist's kitchenette. Doubtful Francis would be awake for a while. He seemed the type to cherish every moment of sleep he could get.

So Arthur was surprised when he heard footsteps across the hardwood floors, and an accented voice carrying through the small apartment.

"I have two months to make you say 'yes'," Francis stated as he practically waltzed into the kitchenette, looking far more energetic than he should have.

Arthur looked over from his perch; one brow quirked in a silent question. If he didn't know any better, Arthur would never think that he just woke up. His blue eyes were bright, his clothes were close to pristine, and even his hair seemed to flow perfectly without a trace of bed-head. "What are you babbling about at this obscenely early hour?"

"It's nearly noon, my dear," he contradicted lightly. His hips swayed slightly as he continued to walk over towards Arthur. "And I am, as you say, 'babbling' about your agreement to l'amour."

Arthur stared at him as if he were an idiot. "I was beginning to think you were actually intelligent," he muttered as he slid off the countertop. "You're making even less sense now."

"I want to make sure my poor Arthur knows what it's like to be in love before I leave you," he teased. "Trust me; there is no better person for this job than myself."

He sighed, and screwed his eyes shut. Francis playing matchmaker? This couldn't get much worse.

"Besides, it's not like it will be difficult," he continued in an offhanded tone. "I know exactly who to pair you with. Because I know what you did this morning."

At this, his eyes snapped open. There was no way… Francis had been asleep; there was now way he could know anything. "Excuse me?" he choked out. "I didn't do anything."

A lazy smirk curved his lips. "You have soft hands, mon lapin," he said. "So contrary to your weapon, I might add."

Blood rushed to Arthur's cheeks. He really needed to stop tempting Murphy's Law. "I… I have no idea what you're talking about," he lied automatically.

"Oh, cher…" He finally closed in on Arthur, placing his hands on either side of the teen and effectively trapping him between Francis and the counter.

Arthur's breath caught in his throat, and he could feel his pulse accelerate. This was escalating quickly. Far too quickly for the Assassin to even try and keep up. If this kept up, he worried he might be swept away by everything.

"Don't play ignorant with me," Francis murmured, snapping Arthur from his reverie. "We both know that you held my hand of your own volition. And I know you were awake when you did so." Slender hands moved slid to the teen's sides, barely brushing the oversized t-shirt he wore. "Don't lie when we both know the truth," he insisted softly.

The melodic rise and fall of his accented voice was hypnotizing. It took nearly everything Arthur had to not fall victim. "You instigated it," he rebutted weakly.

"You certainly didn't fight it," Francis said. "In fact, you don't really fight anything I do. With your body, that is."

His eyes narrowed. "Shut up."

Disregarding Arthur's half-hearted attempts to retaliate, Francis reached up to cup the punk's jaw. "Not unless you really want me to. And trust me, mon amour, you don't want me to be quiet. You don't want me to move away, or let go."

Arthur grasped Francis' wrist with the intention of pulling his hand away. However, he ended up just holding on and averting his eyes. "How would you know that?" he asked. "You can't possibly know what I want."

A soft smile graced his lips. "You're actions speak so much louder than your words. Arthur, your face is an open book; it's one I can read very well."

The teen scowled, still hating Francis for being right. "That makes you sound ridiculously pretentious."

"That would only be a problem if I was wrong," Francis replied before pressing his lips to Arthur's temple. He allowed the kiss to linger just a touch longer than strictly necessary. "And I know I'm right."

That finally provoked him to shove the artist away; a tad too gently to actually be considered retaliatory. "I have never met a man so arrogant in my entire life."

"Then you have never met my friend Gilbert."


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note: **Ok, so this one is maybe two days late… Sorry. I was trying to get back to a decent chapter length, so it took me a bit longer than I wanted.

Thank you to everyone who read, reviewed, favorited, and/or added this to their story alerts! It makes me really happy to see you guys enjoy this.

**Disclaimer:** Hetalia and its characters are property of Himaruya

~X~

"Remind me how dead you are?"

Arthur looked up from the book he had been paging through all day. As of late, he had been forced to tag along with Francis while he worked every single day. He hadn't even noticed that Francis' latest client had left the secluded alley. "Come again?"

Francis brushed a few golden waves from his eyes, pinning a contemplative gaze on the Brit. "You have a form, a heartbeat, and, as far as I can tell, a normal temperature. I can't see where you aren't alive. So remind me; I'm sure you've told me during one of your rambling fits."

He sighed, and dog-eared the page he was on. If he ever bothered returning it to the library, they wouldn't be happy with him. "I lack a soul, several of my nerve endings don't work, and various other systems of mine don't operate properly," he recited  
mechanically. It was difficult not to dwell on the question. It was completely rude to ask, but the problem more was… He was beginning to forget he was dead. Being reminded of it was starting to irritate him.

There was a brief pause as Francis' scrutiny intensified. "Can you eat?" His head tipped inquisitively.

"Can I _what_?"

A small smile crossed his lips. "Eat, cher. As in, if I were to give you food, would you be able to consume it?"

He grimaced slightly, still completely bemused. "If you want me to get sick afterwards, sure," Arthur said drily. "If I eat anything, I'll have to throw it up later. It doesn't process through."

Francis sighed. "That's a shame. I was going to take you for dinner. Of course, we would have had to get you new clothes first," he added, eyeing Arthur's torn jeans disdainfully.

His brow furrowed. "What would I need new clothes for?"

"That attire wouldn't get you in to many decent restaurants," Francis scoffed, gesturing to the ragged Sex Pistols shirt that adorned the teen's slim frame. "Honestly Arthur, do you not own any other clothing? You have been wearing that exact same thing since we met."

Arthur glanced down self-consciously. Safety pins were the only things that kept the left sleeve attached to his shirt, as well as holding together a good chunk of the hem. His jeans were getting to the point where they were showing more skin than they concealed.

Sure, everything was a bit worn out, but a decade of wear tended to do that to clothing. It wasn't as if he had much of a say in that matter. "I can't afford anything else," he admitted. "Why would we be going anywhere with a dress code in the first place?"

Francis pursed his lips, exasperation barely hinted in his expression. "Sit down," he instructed. "Clearly, you are a bit dense and I am going to have to suffer for that."

Green eyes flashed into a glare. "Don't go playing the martyr when you're the one who isn't making sense."

Francis waved his hand dismissively. "Arthur, just sit. We obviously need to have a conversation, and I'm starting to run out of time to put it off."

With a slight grimace, Arthur complied. The artist only had fifty three days left anyways; he may as well indulge him. Even if nothing he said made any sense these days. "Just stop with the vague almost-sense. If we're going to talk, you have to be straight with me."

Francis pulled out a sheet of paper; the motion seeming contemplative. "You said you died at nineteen?" he verified. "You haven't changed a bit since that moment?"

"This is what I meant by vague nonsense," Arthur muttered, watching the artist re-sharpen a few pencils. "I suppose that depends on what you mean by 'change'," he answered louder. "Physically, no. Everything is exactly as it was the moments before my death. The only things that didn't stick were the injuries I obtained in the death itself. Aside from that, every single thing, down to the hair on my head, has been completely unchanged since that moment."

Francis scoffed. "That's not what I meant, but it's nice to know. I meant more in the manner of your behavior. Do you act just as you used to? Have you matured, or gained any new perspective on life during your... death?"

Arthur contemplated this for a moment, the only noises to break the silence were the scratching of graphite on paper, and the hushed murmurs from the streets mere yards away from them. He tried to force his memory back to ten, fifteen years ago.

Vague images of spring rains and another blond boy a few years younger than him came to mind. The pain of his first tattoo on his hip, and the moment the needle went through his tongue. He could remember being angry, and smashing anything he could get his hands on. The look on his mother's face when he came home with bright green hair.

But, there was nothing that he could say that actually defined him. No solid memories on which he could count on. He didn't remember any friends, or even most of his family. Shock shot through his system at this realization. "I don't know," he said hollowly. "I can't even remember anymore. Yes? No? I think so?" Out of habit, he bit down on the edge of his thumb, trying to hold down the stabs of panic and ignoring Francis' request to not move.

Finally, something real hit him. Arguing with Death at their first meeting. Vehemently denying what he knew was true. "Probably not," he finally admitted. "Perhaps I've calmed a bit, but... I don't think I've really changed too much."

"Previous relationships?" Francis asked, feigning obliviousness to Arthur's current plight. "Boyfriends, girlfriends, friends with benefits? A one-night stand perhaps?"

"What are you trying to ask me, you damned Frenchman?" he shot back. "Can you just get to the bloody point? Are you trying to ask if I'm a..." A quick flush covered his cheeks before he changed the course of his sentence. "If I've ever been with someone?" he finished quietly.

"Not in the sense you're thinking," he responded, sounding somewhat appalled. "I simply want to know about the people you fell in love with."

Arthur grimaced. "I can barely remember my father's face. If there was anyone, I sure as hell don't know who they are."

As soon as he said that, he was blindsided by an onslaught of half-memories. The pressure of dry, calloused hands against his own, the feeling of warm lips at his throat… His flush darkened immediately as a face joined the memories of those sensations. A classically handsome face with piercing sky colored eyes and a permanent grin. Sandy blond hair with a single insufferable cowlick that would not stay down.

There was still no name, and nothing concrete for him to go on. He had nothing but a face, and the feeling of a body against his own.

Francis examined him through impassive eyes, alternating between adding things to his page, and scrutinizing the Brit. "There was someone," he stated. "Someone special. So why is it that you don't understand us?"

Arthur glared at him, his cheeks still warm. "What's there to understand? And what the hell does this have to do with me wearing nicer clothes?"

"Cher, I'm trying to ask you out. As I have since you moved in. Actually since before you moved in. The fact that you had a lover before… I wonder how dense you really are. Did he have the same difficulties with you?"

Instinctively, Arthur tried to shove himself backwards, away from the blond, and ended up hitting the concrete elbow-first. Jagged shards of pain tor through his system, and he instantly flinched. "W-wait what?! You were…" His eyes widened as he remembered the lingering touches, and the gentle kisses Francis showered him with. "I thought you were joking," he almost whispered, his throbbing elbow nearly forgotten.

"You ruined the portrait," he tsked. "And I never joke about l'amour, Arthur. So do you accept, or decline?"

His heart sped up a bit and seemed to jump into his throat. "You aren't serious. You're a dead-man; you can't seriously be thinking about this."

Francis carefully hid away the half-finished sketch before striding over to the fallen punk. "I can, and I am. Yes or no." Crystal-toned eyes were seemingly blank, but Arthur could almost pick up on the underlying worry beneath the surface.

Slowly, he pushed himself up to cradle his new injury. There wasn't a way he could get out of this, he realized. In a simple 'yes' 'no' format, he was out of shades of gray to hide behind. "I can't answer that," he finally said. "Francis, you have less than two months. Do you honestly expect anything to come from that?"

"Of course not," he replied easily; a perfectly crafted smile playing on his lips. "But why shouldn't I have a little fun before leaving this world?"

Arthur chewed on the inside of his cheek. This had the potential to go terribly, terribly wrong. Vash's warnings played softly in his head, reminding him of this. If there was even the slightest chance Arthur could grow to feel something for the Frenchman, everything he worked for could come crashing down around him.

There was no chance of that happening, he told himself fiercely. There was no way he would ever feel anything but annoyance towards the artist. Or, so he told himself. "Why me?" he asked quietly.

"Who else would understand my situation? Besides, I promised I would make sure you were loved before I died…" He trailed off, sinking to his knees and reaching for the teen's hand. "Why not let me do it?" he murmured.

'Because I might like you. Because you may be too good at it, and I'll fall in love with you,' his mind whispered. "Because I don't trust you to leave it as a fling," he finally admitted, using evasive honesty. He pulled his hand from Francis' grip, looking away.

"For me? It would never be a fling. It would be anything but." The truth fell easily from his lips. Almost as if he couldn't see the problems with his statements. "Although, I doubt even I can charm you into falling in love with this span of time." His smile shifted to a slightly bitter tone. "Indulge me, Arthur. Give a dying man one last wish. Wouldn't you like to be an angel at least once before you return to human?"

The Assassin's resolve was wavering. It had been shaky to begin with, but it was getting even harder to refuse. "Francis, I can't," he said. "I can't run that risk; what if you're wrong? I just… I don't want anything to go wrong, and you're making it difficult as is."

"Say yes," he insisted softly. "Take one chance on me." As he spoke, his hand closed around Arthur's injured arm, gently pulling it towards him so he could place a light kiss against it. "Just one, Arthur," he breathed.

Arthur was in over his head. He couldn't fight against these words, that touch, this man. He had been struggling since the first moment, and now, Arthur could see that he had lost before it had even begun.


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note: **I'm sorry. I am so, so, so, sorry OTL I got caught up in NaNoWriMo, and then I had work… I really feel abysmal about it. It won't happen again, I promise. I'll be good, and update regularly once more.

Oh, and Guest who reviewed recently… I'm in the Salt Lake area. Where are you? It would be lovely if we actually did live close by ^.^

As always, thank you to everyone who reviewed, favorited, and started following this. Also, thank you for putting up with my long hiatus. You're really too good to me.

**Disclaimer: **Hetalia and its characters belong to Himaruya, and not myself.

~X~

It didn't take long for the punk to realize that the artist was a lot more open with his affections than he was. The only thing that kept Arthur from smacking the other was that Francis always did it in a way that completely disarmed him.

There was a constant of chaste kisses wherever they were, and Francis always insisted that he had Arthur's hand in his own. As the weeks passed, it started escalating further. It happened so slowly, that the Brit almost didn't even notice it happening. Though, he supposed that he had already been in the deep end before they even officially began their façade of a courtship.

But, at the same time, everything was always moving too quickly. It seemed like no time had passed while he was with Francis. But the dates on the calendar kept slipping away. It finally hit Arthur hard as June started wasting away to nothing.

They always pretended it wasn't going to happen. A vague routine set in, and almost every evening Arthur found himself in the wooden chair in the alleyway as Francis did yet another portrait of him.

"Doesn't it scare you?" Arthur asked quietly, out of nowhere. His eyes flicked up to meet Francis', and the confusion was clear "Knowing how close you are to death," he added, almost a whisper.

Francis tipped his head. "Of course it does," he answered as he put away the finished drawing. "I would be stupid not to be. But, I'm not afraid for myself."

His brow furrowed, but he didn't say anything in response. He just waited for Francis to elaborate, as he always did.

A wistful smile curved his lips as he stood up. "It's funny, but I know understand what Gilbert was always saying when we were younger. 'If I die tomorrow, so be it. There is nothing I can do to stop it'." He stopped to laugh for a moment. "I suppose it all makes sense, knowing that there are people like you. It makes me wonder if he knew…"

"What are you afraid of?" Arthur said, attempting to get back to the question that he needed the answer to. He could care less about this 'Gilbert' he had never met.

Crystal eyes focused on him, and Arthur instantly felt exposed. There was something so clear in those eyes, something that seemed to see completely through him. Every evasion he ever put on was torn to shreds by that gaze.

"I'm afraid of what will happen to you," he said simply. "You, who has no one. What will happen to you when you become human again? You've been dead; you can't return to life so simply."

Arthur grimaced. To be honest, the thought had never crossed his mind. Always, he had been so focused on his goal of reaching humanity; he wasn't entirely sure what he was going to do once he finally had it. "Stop worrying about me," he insisted. "I'll be fine."

"What do you propose I worry about, then?" he contradicted. "My sister will be fine, as will my mother. Gilbert will accept it as he always does, and Antonio has his love back. He has someone to console him. You are the only one left. The only one alone."

He shifted uncomfortably. Arthur always put it out of his mind that Francis had a family. That he had friends who would miss him when he died. People who were going to cry at the funeral. "Worry about yourself," he said.

"There's nothing left to be worrying over; I've already taken care of everything that I can." An almost smug smirk turned his lips. "At my funeral, you are to not listen to anyone who calls me a thoughtless imbecile. You'll find that is far from true."

Eyes widened in shock. Another thing he had purposefully forgotten. The fact that he was going to be alive for his burial. "I'm not going to your funeral, Francis," he stated with a shaking voice. "I… I can't do that."

He cocked his head to the side. "Why not? I already declared that you were going to write my eulogy. Who would do that if you didn't show up?"

"You're mother would be the best choice, I would think," Arthur snapped back. He took a deep breath as he tried to quell the anxiety that had begun to race through his thoughts. "I can't. I just can't go to your burial."

Francis sighed. "Why not? It seems like a reasonable request, I think."

A brief grimace crossed his expression. "If the situation was reversed, would you go to my funeral?" he asked in return. "If I was the one dying, would you come to see the burial, and read the eulogy?"

Arthur could see the wheels turning in Francis' mind; his eyes flickering about as he contemplated that situation. It was nearly painful to watch his expression shift from thoughtful, to hurt, to recognition. Thousands of emotions crossed through his eyes, shifting the set of that once-arrogant mouth.

"Yes," he responded lowly. "I would." Francis brushed a few strands of golden hair from his forehead as he finally settled into a worn smile.

A few moments of silence passed between them. Though the words were easily found, Arthur couldn't bring himself to say them. Not yet.

"Shall we go home, then?" Francis asked, holding a hand out to the teen. "Or was there somewhere in particular you wanted to go?"

That was the moment he realized there was an escape. There was a place he could go where he didn't have to be worried that he might lose himself to his emotions. He knew someone who could possibly save him.

He took a slow breath before replying. "I wanted to go visit someone," Arthur said evasively.

"Who?" Francis asked, attempting an offhanded tone as he dropped his hand back to his side.

This was where things got tricky, Arthur decided. There was only so much he was allowed to tell. "An old friend."

His brow furrowed. "I thought you didn't know anyone here…"

He bit down on his lip. Panic was beginning to set in, sending his pulse a few beats quicker. Until he realized he had a trump card. He had an answer that would give him that way out. "It's my grave," he said bluntly. "I… I want to see it…"

Truth be told, Arthur didn't even know if he had been buried, much less where that would have been. He prayed Francis didn't realize that. Didn't ask questions.

It worked. Utter shock crossed Francis' face the second the first sentence processed through. In a moment, he managed to collect himself back into that perfect mask. "Do you want me to come with you?"

He shook his head. "I need to do it alone," he murmured, finally standing up. "I'll be back later tonight, I just…" He trailed off, unsure how to finish that thought.

Francis nodded slowly. There were likely thousands of things he wanted to say. Something to convince Arthur to let him come with, or something supportive. Instead, all he said was, "Be careful."

~X~

It was nearly nine before Arthur found himself standing in front of the darkened building. The glass of the door was cold against the palm of his hand as he pushed it open.

Two people were standing around the lobby, manila folders in their hands. One was infamous Roderich Edelstein, who spent more time pawning his kills off on others than actually working off his debt. A frown of distaste curled his lips as he flipped through pages.

The other was a face unknown to Arthur. Anxiety seemed to have etched lines between grass-green eyes. Dark brown hair waved down to his shoulders, framing a pale face. He had the nervousness typical of a new recruit.

Behind the counter, he met the gaze of the man he intended to see. A sharp glare pierced him, as it always had.

Slowly, he made his way toward Vash, keeping his eyes away from the other two Assassins.

"What are you doing here, Kirkland?" he asked lowly once Arthur was in earshot. "I gave you your last kills months ago."

A warped smile turned his lips. This was exactly what he needed. "I don't think I can do it," he replied, keeping the same volume as the Swiss man. "Any chance I can get a reassignment?"

"No," Vash said bluntly. "I've been working with the damn musician all day; because he thinks he's too good to take a life. You'll do your job."

That was what he had been expecting to hear. In ten years, he had gotten only one kill change. "Vash, I can't do it," he insisted.

The emerald glare hardened impossibly further and the scrutiny increased. "I swear to god, Kirkland," he growled. "What have I told you about getting close to them?"

The answer was simple. He was told not to. "It's not that," he lied. "I can't kill a man in a church."

"You killed Parks in a church," he retorted, pulling out a file. "Bonnefoy is no different."

Arthur cursed mentally. He was running out of excuses.

After a pause, the blond sighed. "Don't do something stupid," Vash said. "If you think… You aren't being a hero by not killing him."

He flinched.

"You're prolonging the inevitable," he continued, ignoring Arthur's reaction. "The only thing that will change if you don't kill Bonnefoy is that you'll be damned. You won't save his life."

It was what he needed to hear. Much as it hurt, that was what Arthur needed to be told.

"I know," he sighed. "I know…"

Arthur didn't want to die. He didn't want to be chained in the pits of hell for eternity. And… If Francis was going to die anyways…

There wasn't anything he could do to change that. All he could do was make sure he got what he deserved.


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note: **Thank you to everyone who favorited and added this to their story alerts ^.^ And thank you to everyone who has stuck with this story so far.

**Disclaimer:** Hetalia and its characters are property of Himaruya.

~X~

The empty streets of near-midnight almost brought comfort to the Assassin. It gave him room to think, and the time to be rational. Unfortunately, he realized that all of that rationality was going to disappear the moment he was faced with Francis.

But, for now he contented himself with mulling over Vash's words.

Arthur knew he had been speaking the truth when he said he couldn't take the artist's life. It was too personal now, more so than even Mr. Stephens who was not much more than a memory now. The teacher had been nothing but a face, and a handful of half-sure memories.

But, was there even a choice anymore? Was there a way that he could force himself to simply accept his damnation instead of taking the life of Francis? The artist had seemingly accepted his death; would it really be much more difficult for Arthur to do the same?

It was painful to consider. And knowing that it wouldn't even change anything made it even worse.

In a single word, the entire situation was hopeless. No matter what Arthur did, there was no way for the two of them to get out of this.

There was no way for Arthur to play the hero. Francis was going to die whether or not he struck the last blow.

The Swiss' words flickered in and out of his mind, bringing a sense of despair that was almost a comfort. Pain meant humanity. That's what he had been seeking, what Francis claimed to want. Perhaps he couldn't play the good guy, but…

The second Arthur walked through the door; he could feel the anxiety tightening the air. It took mere moments to find the artist drumming his fingers against a sketchpad with a vacant expression.

"Francis…?" he asked, hesitantly approaching the other.

His eyes flicked away from the page. "You're home," he stated, relief washing over his face. The sketchbook was quickly set aside as he stood up to wrap an arm around the Reaper.

"I'm back," he corrected, stepping away from him. This wasn't his home. It belonged to Francis; not him. It would never be home.

Francis scoffed. "That's what I said," he said. "'You're home'."

Arthur decided not to point out that they said two completely different things. Instead, he rolled his eyes and headed towards the room the two of them shared. "Whatever you say," he muttered under his breath.

"You seem surprisingly well," he added as the punk walked past him. "Considering where you were."

Arthur froze. It took him a moment for him to remember the lie he had told Francis earlier. That he had been visiting his burial site.

Looking back, he was met with a mildly disbelieving gaze. "You didn't see your grave, did you?" Francis asked with a sigh.

"I did," he lied hollowly. The words rang painfully false, even in his own ears. "Where else would I go?"

"Wherever you wanted," he answered easily. "So, where were you?"

That put Arthur on the defensive. "You aren't my mother; I don't answer to you." He turned on his heel to face the blond. "I went to visit my grave."

"You would never do that," Francis contradicted. "You worry about the future too much to be looking at your past. Which I'm not entirely convinced you remember, I may add."

Arthur bit down on the inside of his cheek. No assumption had been closer to the truth than that one. It was almost painful how easily the artist could see through him. "You don't know that," he murmured. Shooting another glare at Francis, he continued, "And it isn't your business either way."

"Arthur," Francis tried, reaching out for the punk.

He stepped further away. "Leave it be, Francis," he retorted. "I don't want to talk about it."

His gaze hardened. "No. I don't ask a lot of you, but I'm tired of you living in secrets. There's not even three weeks left, cher; just give me some answers so I can help you properly."

Abruptly, every emotion drained away from Arthur. Eighteen days. There was only eighteen days until he had to take Francis' life. "Knowing won't help," he said as echoes of Vash's words played through his mind. "It doesn't change anything."

Worry furrowed his brow. "I just want to know where you went for the last seven hours. Is that really something that you can't tell me?"

Arthur's hands tensed into fists. "I just needed to talk to someone that wasn't you. Someone who actually understands my situation."

Hurt replaced the worry, making Arthur wish he had just kept silent.

"The living don't understand the dead, Francis," he continued softly. "A victim can't understand the Assassin."

"Not if the Assassin keeps insisting he's dead when he's clearly not. Or if the Assassin won't let the living understand."

A grimace curved his lips. Twisting words like that… It was so painfully Francis. "This is exactly why I needed to talk to him," Arthur said. "You're too much of an artist, sometimes. Something more practical… I needed someone to tell me exactly how it was, without those pretty words."

That left Francis completely speechless.

~X~

The fact that Arthur woke up alone was more than enough to set him on edge. By now, he was used to Francis' warmth beside him in the mornings.

Remembering their words, though… Arthur couldn't say he was surprised. Instead of actually getting up to look for him, and attempt an apology, he just burrowed deeper into the light covers.

"Fucking hate everything," he muttered, hoping that he could possibly fall back into a pleasant dream.

"I can't imagine why," Francis said from the other side of the room.

Hearing his voice, Arthur's eyes snapped open. After a split second, he scrambled into an upright position; dragging the blanket with him.

Dark circles beneath his eyes were the only indication Arthur needed to know that Francis hadn't slept at all last night.

"Though you do look terrible," he added.

"You're one to talk," Arthur shot back reflexively.

Francis shrugged. "You gave me quite a bit to consider last night. 'Too much of an artist', is that right?"

Arthur blanched. "He's… more _practical_ than you are when it comes to this sort of thing," he defended weakly.

"Would you prefer if I was more 'practical'?" Francis bit back.

It was entirely too early for this conversation, in Arthur's opinion. They were just going to end up fighting over it. "Just let me finish," Arthur snapped. "I get sick of your half-reasoning. That and you never listen to my side; too busy trying to convince me I'm not dead…" He scowled at that. "And he knows that I am."

"You aren't," Francis insisted.

Arthur shook his head, feeling the exhaustion of a decade. He felt aged, as if he had actually been growing up this entire time. "It would be so much easier if you understood," he said softly. "It would be so much easier if I stayed dead."


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's Note:** I'm sorry for the slow updates. College is kind of kicking my butt right now. I'll probably only update once a week now.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed, added this to their favorites, and started following this!

**Disclaimer:** Hetalia and its characters are property of Himaruya

~X~

"What did you used to do?"

Arthur turned around to cast a questioning glance to the artist. They were still on shaky terms from their argument a few days prior; Francis seemed to have decided to push his luck anyways.

"When you were alive," he clarified. "Were you a student? Did you work? Though, with your looks… I would think employment was limited, yes?"

The teen glared at him. He managed to stave of the tension that threatened to lock him down. It would be best if he could put back that cold façade. "Are you seriously going to go down this path again? I already told you I don't remember."

He shrugged, tying his hair back into a low ponytail. "Why not? I remember ten years ago quite well. Shouldn't you be able to do the same?"

"Francis, we aren't having this conversation."

Arthur didn't even want to try to remember anymore. For almost a month, he had been trying to summon back any recollection from before his death. Everything he managed to get was hazy at best, and it was always something he wished he never knew.

Half-memories of fights, and failures were the only thing he could grasp. Nothing he would ever want to admit to. Especially not to Francis.

"I think we are," the Frenchman insisted. "I think it would be good for you, if you could remember."

He scowled. "No." Finality rang through that single syllable.

Or, he had thought so.

"How did you die?" Francis pressed. "Can you tell me that much?"

Arthur shut his eyes tightly in a vain attempt to block out the other. "No," he insisted. The faintest stabs of a headache began as he tried to stop himself from looking for memories.

"No, you don't know, or no, you can't tell me?"

"Shut up a second," he hissed, pressing his fingers against his temple. "Just… Shut up."

There was no memory. Just like his past, there was nothing. Not at first.

'I'm on the plane,' he remembered. A shock coursed through him as that came back; arguing with Death. Insisting that he was still on a plane. But to where? Why was he on a plane and what the hell happened to it?

Arthur didn't take too long to try and figure it out. The more time he spent trying to remember, the more his head would hurt. "A plane crash," he hazarded.

"A plane going where?" Francis pressed, reaching to place a hand over Arthur's. "If you can't remember…"

He shook his head, nearly slapping the other's hand away. "I told you that we weren't going to talk about it."

"No. Arthur, we agreed that you would try."

"I never agreed to that!" the Assassin shot back. "I've told you a thousand times that I don't remember anything. Just let it go! I'm never going to get my human life back."

The fact that Francis was pushing it was really starting to make Arthur feel like he was being backed into a corner. He worried that if Francis were to just shove a little harder, Arthur would snap.

"Just try," he insisted softly. "One more time. If it doesn't help, then we'll never talk about it again. All right?"

He shook his head. "I'm not going to do this anymore," he said. "There's no use in remembering, and I don't want to try anymore."

"Arthur…" Francis gently brushed his fingertips across Arthur's cheek in an attempt to regain cooperation.

The Assassin slapped it away automatically; recoiling from him. "Don't you dare," he warned. "I said I'm done, and I meant it. I'm not doing this. _We_ are not doing this."

"But—"

"I fucking said no!" he interrupted. "Just shut the hell up about my past, because it's bloody stupid, and it doesn't even matter anymore!"

The look of complete shock on Francis' face was enough to force Arthur to practically bolt for the door. It nearly made him feel nauseous, knowing that he could cause something like that with nothing but words.

He slammed the door shut behind him; ignoring Francis calling his name. There was no way he could go back in there now. There was no way he could handle that conversation. Not now, nor ever.

~X~

It was nearly two hours before Arthur managed to convince himself to go back. Most of him had just wanted to remain in solitude for the last two weeks, but somehow… Somehow he ended up coming back anyways.

Slowly, he pushed open the door to Francis' apartment, hoping that the artist wasn't actually there.

"Honestly, Gilbert," he heard the Frenchman sigh. "Half the time I'm not entirely convinced he even _likes_ me."

Arthur froze in place.

There was a brief pause before Francis continued. "Arthur just comes and goes as he pleases," he said. "Never says a word that would indicate that he does… No, I'm sure."

Arthur almost wanted to close the door, and walk away then. It wasn't his place to intrude on a phone conversation with this infamous Gilbert.

But, at the same time…

"Of course I would have noticed!" Francis retorted, scandalized. There was another pause before he gasped in shock. "And what is that supposed to mean?! Just because I'd rather invest in an emotional relationship—"

Francis was cut off, and Arthur still found himself standing on the other side of the half-opened door.

"He just left," he said morosely. "I don't even know what I did wrong…"

Arthur could hear him hum thoughtfully. "Honestly, all I did was ask about his past. He threw a fit over it."

The teen could almost see him waving his hand dismissively, and his eyes narrowed.

He didn't bother trying to be quiet this time, as he harshly shut the door shut and left.

~X~

Living on the streets was a lot less palatable after knowing the comfort of an actual home. The summer's heat was becoming unbearable, even in the dead of night. There was nothing that was safe out here. Not like Francis was.

Arthur managed to last two sleepless nights before going back. But, he didn't go back to Francis. Not yet. Not until he had some recollection.

"I keep telling you to go away, and you keep showing up here," Vash complained the second he set his eyes on Arthur. "What do you want this time?"

"Answers," he said bluntly. He didn't bother to glance at the select few who were still in the office. "I want to know about before."

The Swiss quirked a brow, clearly not even remotely amused. "Before what?" he deadpanned.

"Before I was dead," Arthur elaborated, rolling his eyes. "It's been bothering me lately. I can't really remember it clearly."

Vash's brow furrowed. "There was no 'before you were dead'. You've always been an Assassin." He eyed the teen skeptically. "Are you feeling all right? Or did you finally go crazy?"

Shock coursed through his veins like ice. No before? That wasn't possible. Still, a nagging suspicion started to worm its way through Arthur's thoughts. "You're lying," he insisted quietly.

He scoffed. "You really lost it. Well, whatever. It's not like you'll have to deal with it much longer anyways. From what I hear, you won't even remember this when you become human anyways."

"I'm not crazy," Arthur shot back. "I know there was something before this."

He tried to scramble for his half-memories. The blond with glasses, his mother, pain… Anything.

"Of course there wasn't," Vash returned coolly.

"Mr. Stephens," he said. "I remember having him as a teacher; I know I do."

"No you don't."

A heavy weight started to descend in the pit of his stomach. That couldn't be true. "I do," he repeated.

Emerald-toned eyes scrutinized him. "What do you actually remember?"

Once again, he was trying to find the memories. Anything concrete that he could hold on to.

After a few minutes, his heart started to race as he realized that there wasn't anything.

Just as he had always been insisting.

"Oh my god," he breathed, feeling his hands begin to shake. There was no life before this deal.

An almost sympathetic frown turned Vash's lips. "Anything you think you remember is just a coping mechanism," he said. "None of it was ever real. That's why it's not clear."

He pressed a hand over his mouth. This wasn't what he wanted. "No… No, it can't be."

Vash shook his head. "Quit this denial shit. It's a fact; accept it. We were never alive, Kirkland."

That's when Arthur finally broke. His knees hit the tile sharply as he collapsed, but he didn't care. The stinging pain was a welcome relief from this mental anguish.

Because what Vash said made sense.


	15. Chapter 15

**Author's Note: **… Random really-quick update, ok xD Apparently it's going to be sporadic updating with no real schedule until the story ends.

Thanks to everyone who has read, favorited, added to alerts, and/or reviewed! Thanks for sticking with this, as well

**Disclaimer:** Hetalia and its characters are property of Himaruya

~X~

Arthur had all but disappeared off the radar. He avoided anywhere that people might see him to the point where he was hiding in abandoned buildings even the homeless avoided. After his conversation with Vash, he hadn't spoken a word.

Not that there was anyone around to talk to, anyways. For three days, he stayed on the outskirts of town, hiding from everything. The only sun he saw came through a window with only a few shards of grimy glass remaining.

Most of the time passed by unnoticed; the teen being too preoccupied with the notion that he was never anything real.

It felt so hollow. In less than five minutes, his entire world had been torn down around him leaving Arthur staring at the ruins in a daze. For the last ten years, he had always assumed he had a prior life, and never gave it much more thought than that.

What else was he supposed to think? The first thing he could solidly remember was arguing with Death that he was alive, and on a plane.

When Francis started questioning about his past, he realized how little he knew. But, he still held on to those tiny scraps he could manage to remember. That was all he needed to confirm that idea of his previous humanity. He didn't see another alternative.

Now, though… Now, he realized that Vash was almost certainly right; that he was never alive. Those fragments of recollection weren't enough to prove otherwise. Once that alternative was introduced, it was impossible to ignore.

The scraps of memory he found could easily be explained as his imagination getting the best of him. A story behind the green hair, the tattoo, the piercings. Making up things to provide him a life story so he didn't feel lost.

That was a sort of pain that Arthur didn't wish on anyone. Knowing that everything you ever thought was based on a lie. And all he could do about it was wallow in self-pity in a corner of some abandoned hospital.

It took three days to realize that he needed to get himself back together. It took that long to realize that he needed to see Francis.

He only hoped that his five-day disappearance would be easily forgiven.

~X~

"It's been almost a week," Arthur heard someone say as he approached Francis' alley. "Maybe you should just give him up for dead."

He stopped. Arthur didn't even remotely recognize that raspy, German-accented voice of the speaker.

"Arthur's not dead," Francis snapped back.

The teen felt his heart drop. His voice was strained, worried, bordering on completely panicked. He had been stupid to assume that his disappearance wouldn't affect the artist. But, how could he even have assumed that it would go that far?

"He can't be," Francis finished quietly; a near-whisper.

His hands clenched into fists. He was painfully well aware that the more time he spent out of sight, the worse it was going to get. That was obvious. But still… He couldn't quite bring himself to face the Frenchman. Not when he was painfully aware that he was to blame.

"Just give up on the idiot," another boy chimed in. "That bastard's cold as ice. It's not like he actually cares about you."

That actually caused him to flinch. Cold. Well, he must be, if he ran off for five entire days without even considering anyone else. But to be accused of not even caring about Francis…

"Lovi, be nice," a third chided.

The first stranger sighed. "Franny, we've pretty much checked everywhere. If he's coming back, and I do say 'if', he'll do it in his own time. Searching obviously isn't going to help."

With a sigh, he leaned back against the corner of the building right next to the mouth of the side-street, allowing his eyes to slide shut. The Italian, Lovi, was right. Francis should just stop this. It wasn't fair t the Frenchman to be worrying over him.

"I'm not giving up on him, Gilbert," he said.

"Maybe you don't understand what it's like, but… I need to know he's ok." Arthur could hear the smile in his voice. "I'm not going to stop looking for him."

Once again, the German, Gilbert, scoffed. The contempt was nearly audible.

"You really should though," Arthur finally said, rounding the corner. "Give up on me, I mean."

He met the shocked glares of four different people: an albino with brilliant crimson irises, an emerald-eyed man with a strained smile, a teenage ex-Assassin Arthur only vaguely remembered, and Francis.

Arthur shrugged sheepishly, dropping his gaze. "Sorry," he tacked on.

"'Sorry'?" Francis repeated. "You're 'sorry'?"

He bit down on the inside of his lip, unsure of how to respond.

The slow sound of approaching footsteps was the only thing that marred the tense silence.

"Franny," the albino tried. "Be rational, man."

"Nah, he should beat the hell out of Eyebrows," Lovi contradicted. "He's caused a hell of a lot of shit, especially considering…" He cut himself off, as if the young boy didn't know how to continue. "Considering how all he did was leave," he finished lamely.

The footfalls finally stopped mere inches away from Arthur, who still refused to look up.

The next thing he was aware of was the sharp sound of skin on skin, and a stinging across his cheek. "No you're not," Francis said coldly.

Within seconds, his own palm was pressed against his cheek, wide eyed. Finally, he met Francis' frozen blue eyes.

"Francis," someone gasped. The only one Arthur didn't have a name for.

"Its fine," Arthur found himself saying. "I… It's my fault, anyways."

"Five days, Arthur," Francis spat. "No word, no letter, not even a phone call! Where were you? Do you really think its ok to just pack up and leave? We had a _deal_!" By the end of his tirade, his voice was shaking from holding back tears.

"Don't use that word," Arthur said reflexively at the same time Lovi muttered, "I swear to god if I hear that word one more fucking time…"

"I will use whatever word I please," he snapped. "What the hell were you thinking?!"

Arthur heard the mutterings of Spanish in the background, and Gil trying to reason with Francis. "I wasn't," he finally said softly. There wasn't another answer he was able to give.

Not in front of these strangers.

"Of course you weren't. You never think." Francis paused for a moment. "Did you even consider that I would be worried about you?" he asked.

Slowly, he reached out to take the artist's hand. Partly because he didn't want to get slapped again, but mostly because he could tell that Francis needed something solid to hold right now. "I didn't mean to be gone for so long," Arthur replied. "I… lost track of time." His eyes flickered to the three strangers. "Sorry," he said again.

Gil was scrutinizing him in a way that nearly made the teen feel uncomfortable. Lovi refused to meet his gaze.

"Don't ever do it again," Francis said. "I don't want you out of my sight."

"Possessive much?" Lovino asked under his breath.

He grimaced. Sorry as he was, that was still a slightly unpleasant idea. He was a rather solitary person, likely brought on—now that he was aware that he never had a human life—by his entire lifetime of solitude. "How about I just don't disappear for days at a time?" Arthur bargained.

Francis tossed a quick glance behind him before leaning closer. His lips weren't even an inch away from Arthur's ear. "There's only a few days left," he whispered. "Give me every minute of my last nine days, and then you can have all the alone-time you want."

A quick flush covered his cheeks as he stepped away from the blond. "Fine," he agreed grudgingly.

Gil chuckled a very distinct, almost hissing, laugh. "You really pick weird ones, Francis," he remarked. "Mind if I have a word with him, though? Or do you want to yell at the poor kid some more?"

Without waiting for an actual agreement, the German man grabbed Arthur's wrist and dragged him deeper into the alley. "You're an angel of death, right?" he asked the moment they were out of earshot.

Arthur instantly jerked out of his grip. "What the hell are you talking about?" he hissed.

He rolled his eyes. "I know a couple of them," Gil answered, as if it was the most obvious answer in the world. "So are you? Because if you are, I don't want you anywhere near Francis, understand?"

The teen glared at him. The infamous Gilbert who Francis spoke of from time to time.

He wanted to slap the man across the face. "No," he replied through grit teeth. "And you're completely daft if you actually believe that kind of thing exists."

Arthur turned his back on Gil to head back to Francis who would more than likely spend the rest of his life hanging on to him.

"Then why do you carry a bow that no one else can apparently see?" Gil called out just loud enough for Arthur to hear.

He whirled around, pure hatred written on his face. Frankly, he was starting to really hate him impossibly more with each passing moment.

Gil's expression was oddly solemn for how cocky his voice was. "Stay away from him, ok?" he sighed. "That's my best friend; I don't want to lose him."

Arthur managed a sneer. "You're completely insane if you think any of that's true," he retorted.

He shrugged. "Probably. But you still haven't denied a word I said."


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's Note: **I really am sorry about the delay… Life's been kind of a bitch as of late. Though, I'm thinking we have about two to three chapters after this, and an epilogue, so hopefully you won't have to deal with my late updates for too much longer ^^; I tried to make this chapter quite a bit longer to compensate for your long wait.

Thank you to everyone who read, reviewed, followed, and added Deals with Death to their favorites; it really means a lot

**Disclaimer: **Hetalia and its characters belong to Himaruya

~X~

To say that the tension between the two of them was awkward would be an understatement, to say the very least. It set Arthur on edge to the point where he had to focus entirely on not fidgeting, or walking out.

After a few moments of Francis conversing with the odd 'search party', the three thankfully had all left without too much of a qualm.

The Spaniard—Antonio, as he found out—was truly the cheeriest of the trio; his grin widened as he bid both Arthur and Francis goodbye.

Lovino followed after, shooting Arthur a meaningful glare, but saying nothing to either him, or Francis.

Gilbert… He didn't even acknowledge Arthur's presence as he went on some long story about why he had to leave right that second because of some prissy musician, and how Francis should really make sure not to get hurt without his 'awesome presence' to keep him safe.

Fortunately, the Frenchman seemed to tire of the long goodbye just as quickly as Arthur did. It wasn't too long before he was all but shoving the German out onto the street as he rolled his eyes.

"I thought he would never leave…" He sighed. "You must have upset him somehow; he rarely rambles like that in front of strangers."

Arthur grimaced; memories of their conversation mere minutes earlier still fresh in his mind. "He seemed rather talkative to me," he grumbled. "Can we just get out of here? You look like hell."

"And you look no better," Francis replied easily as he reached to take Arthur's hand. "Although, you look more…" He broke off, searching for a word.

The teen silently quirked a brow, twining his fingers with Francis'. Much as he hated to admit it, he missed the warmth of the other's hand against his own.

A soft smile finally curled his lips. "Alive," he finished. "You look more alive than you did before."

Arthur felt all the blood drain from his face. Really, it was some kind of cruel joke, providing the artist was actually serious. To be condemned as a truly dead man, then to be told how alive you look… Cruel. Vash would probably laugh, had he been around to hear.

"I'm not sure if that's a compliment or if you're just teasing me," he returned with a scowl. "Either way, I'm just as dead as I was five days ago."

The reminder caused Francis to tense up almost imperceptibly. The only notice Arthur got was the tightening of his grasp.

Before Arthur could ask anything, Francis opened his mouth. "Where did you go?" he asked quietly. "_Why_ did you go?"

This is where the yelling was going to resume, he thought. The yelling, the tears, and more denial than Arthur would have previously thought possible. "Not here," he evaded, keeping his eyes away from the Frenchman. Here, there were too many potential witnesses; that wasn't something Arthur was keen on having around.

"Here is just as good as anywhere else," Francis insisted. "Arthur, I need an answer. I don't even care where you were. Just tell me why."

Arthur looked away, forcing his mind to work quickly. Somehow, he had to find the right balance between the truth, and a believable lie to make this work out. This was where things were going to get tricky.

The truth was something he didn't even want to remember, much less relay to Francis. But somehow, he could see right through Arthur's lies. However, if he could manage to weave just enough truth in there… There was a chance.

Of course, there was no chance Arthur would be able to create such a tale with this little notice. Had he been smarter, he would have thought about this before coming back.

The fact that he hadn't proved that Arthur obviously never thought before he acted, he decided. A childish move. "I don't remember," he said.

"That's certainly why you left in the first place," Francis agreed. "But I know you came back after that. And you brutalized my door before leaving again."

He suppressed a questioning glance. He legitimately didn't remember that. Instead, Arthur leveled a glare at him. "Had I been thinking clearly at that moment, I might have taken it off its hinges instead," he retorted, blindly making something up.

"That was a _joke_," Francis retorted. "Really, Arthur…" He sighed, letting go of his hand. "I need to know."

"No you don't," Arthur snapped. "Francis, trust me when I tell you that you don't want to know. It's… You wouldn't like it." Arthur's fists tensed at the mere thought of Francis learning about his total inhumanity. It was nerve-wracking to even consider.

"What I don't like is how right now it seems like you can hold such a grudge over a one-sided conversation that you likely didn't even understand properly," he replied. "Five days over a slipping memory and a phone call… That's not what I consider good."

Arthur's eyes widened as a faint blush colored his cheeks. He had completely forgotten about that part. Was that really why he walked out to begin with?

"I don't think that was your full reason, of course," Francis continued. "You're much too rational for that. But if you don't tell me otherwise, I may be forced to consider that alternative."

There was now a clear crossroads Arthur had reached. The idea of being viewed as so petty in Francis' eyes wasn't a pleasant thought. That wasn't something he ever was; worrying and holding such small grudges was a complete waste of time and attention in his opinion.

On the other hand, telling Francis he was never alive, and that every memory was a lie… Not only would the artist not believe him, but that would likely lead to another huge confrontation that Arthur really did not want to deal with right now.

There wasn't a right choice, he realized with a pang of disappointment. Only wrong, and disastrous.

Disastrous seemed a better alternative, Arthur decided in what he would surely remember later as a fit of sheer idiocy.

"I went to see Vash," Arthur said hesitantly. "He's… Like me," he elaborated, realizing Francis had no idea who that was. "Dead, I mean."

"The one who was more 'practical' than I am," Francis added. A surprisingly bitter note graced his tone. "The one you ran to last time.

Arthur worried his lower lip. This wasn't going to go well. Better than he thought, perhaps. But it was still terrible. "R-right…" he confirmed hesitantly."He told me some things that… Really, I don't think you want to know this," he tried again, getting close to the line between asking and pleading.

"What I want to know has no bearing on what I need to know."

He was beginning to feel like he needed to bash his head against one of the brick walls on either side of him out of sheer frustration. Instead, he settled for shifting awkwardly as he averted his eyes away from Francis. "Well, it turns out that I'm… Dead."

There was a tense silence. Arthur didn't dare glance over to the artist, so he had no idea how he was taking it.

"That's it?" Francis finally said. "You left because Vash told you something that you've known for ten years? Have you lost your mind?"

He pressed the heel of his hand against his temple; attempting to stave of a headache he could almost feel as the other ranted on.

"Francis, shut up for a second," Arthur interrupted, chancing a quick glare at him. "I mean that I'm not human."

That shut him up instantly. Francis was dumbstruck by that single statement.

Arthur finally met his eyes, and held his gaze as he repeated that. "I'm not human, Francis. And I never was."

Neither of them spoke for a few moments after, allowing that to fully sink in. Unfortunately, because of that silence he could almost hear the exact moment that Francis snapped.

"Not human?" Francis repeated quietly. "You expect me to believe that Arthur Kirkland, you, never existed?"

Arthur automatically shrunk back at his tone. This was different from the Francis who had slapped him, and screamed at him earlier. He was wrong to be afraid of that Francis; this was the one who should be feared.

"Dead. I can understand that. I knew that from the moment I laid eyes on you. But for you to tell me that you weren't born human, but created a Reaper…" Francis cut himself off there.

"There's no other explanation," Arthur murmured. "It makes sense."

"You remember your past," Francis retorted. "How can you claim to be inhuman when you remember about being human?"

Arthur held up his hands in defense as he slowly edged backwards. "I don't remember, though," he said weakly.

"You remember a plane crash," Francis shot back. "You remember regret, having a lover; Arthur you remember!"

"Only vaguely," Arthur returned, desperation tainting his voice. "My mind made it all up. Francis, it's the only thing that makes _sense_."

Crystal-toned eyes hardened into miniature glaciers. "No," he said. "What makes sense is that Vash is a liar, and that you were human. You then died, and became a Grim Reaper. _That_ is the only thing that makes sense, Arthur."

To his dismay, the Assassin could feel tears prick his eyes. Disastrous had been right. Quickly, he turned away so Francis wouldn't see. "You're wrong," he whispered. "You wanted to know why there were so many holes in my memory, and this is why. Because none of it was real."

He fought to regain his composure, but it was obvious he was losing.

"Arthur..."

"No, Francis," the teen interrupted. "I don't know... I know you don't believe me, but I know that I was never alive. What I don't know is what that means for me, for us."

He felt an arm slip around his shoulder, and a head rest on top of his own. "Cher, that has no bearing on you," he assured the younger. "You're right, though. I don't believe you. Do you remember when I first asked you to stay?"

Slowly, he nodded, unsure of where Francis was going with this.

"What did I tell you?" Francis prompted. "I know you can at least remember that much."

Arthur searched for the words that the artist had told him that night. Memories of being covered in blood, so much blood that wasn't even his own and soothing murmurs that weren't always in English passed through his mind before he could find what he had been looking for.

"That I may be dead, but I was still the most human you had ever met," he breathed. New information even caused that to hurt. Because he wasn't human; not really. He wasn't even a corpse, or an ex-human.

He was something created for the sole purpose of harvesting human souls from the dead. Not a person who had lived, and died young.

"And you are," Francis said. "You are genuine, Arthur. Being human doesn't necessarily mean that you lived the life of a human, or even that you're alive. Don't you see? Because you hurt, because you feel, and worry, and fear... That's what makes you human, mon cher… Mon amour... And that has never changed with you."

He felt a blush warm his cheeks, and a trail of tears wash down them. So desperately he wanted that to be true. He wanted to be the person Francis saw him as. And, much as he hated to even think this, he wanted Francis to keep telling him all these pretty phrases, and call him French pet names. More than anything, he wanted to be worthy of them all.

"It's all been a lie," he insisted softly. "You can't call someone like me human. I'm a killer who was created to kill."

Francis scoffed, and let him go. "You're really starting to get on my nerves, Arthur," he said. "You know what; I'm going to settle this. I'm going to call 'Tonio and have him look you up. He'll find the plane crash you died in, and you can finally just admit that I'm right, and that you are human. That you were a real person. Understand?"

For a moment, Arthur was reminded of the day when Francis found out what he truly was all those months ago. Being spoken to as if he were a child who had misbehaved before Francis walked off to make a phone call.

It was strange how they had come nearly full circle to that day. Antonio wouldn't tell Francis what he wanted to hear, and he would have to accept that Arthur was right. Perhaps it was wishful thinking, however, when Arthur almost hoped that he was wrong.

Arthur wiped the tears from his eyes, determined not to let it show how much this hurt.

It didn't fool the older, though. "Let's go home," Francis said, providing a distraction. "We can call him there."

Emerald eyes flickered to crystal-blue. He didn't offer an answer, allowing instead for the silence to stretch between them.

Francis sighed after a minute, when he realized Arthur wouldn't speak. Without waiting for confirmation, he reached for the Assassin's hand and led him back to their shared apartment.

~X~

"What do you mean you can't find anything?!"

Arthur flinched from Francis' loud tone. "I told you he wouldn't," he muttered as he massaged his temple.

Only minutes after arriving at Francis' apartment, the artist had Antonio on speakerphone so both he and Arthur could hear the Spaniard as he searched for any indication that Arthur had been alive. As Arthur had predicted, he was having no luck.

That didn't make it hurt any less, though. The confirmation was like another dagger in his heart.

"I mean that I'm not seeing anything about an Arthur Kirkland who died in a plane crash," Antonio insisted. "Sorry, but there's nothing here."

Francis glared at the wall inches from Arthur's head. "Maybe you aren't looking hard enough?" he nearly begged. "Antonio, I know he's there…"

"Well, if there is, I'm not finding it," he said. "I'm sorry, Francis, but there just isn't anything here."

Francis bit down on his lower lip as he dropped his gaze. "All right… Well, thanks for looking."

"Anything for a friend. I'll see you next week, Francis," Antonio said before hanging up.

Francis did the same, but in a way that almost seemed dazed.

Arthur tilted his head, watching the artist closely. If he didn't know any better, he would say that the Frenchman was about thirty seconds from crying. "Francis, it's ok," he said softly. "Really, there's no reason for you to be upset…"

"He's wrong," Francis interjected automatically. "He just didn't look hard enough; I know there's something there…" Finally, his eyes lifted to Arthur's.

He nearly gasped when he saw tears brimming Francis' eyes. The same willpower that brought him back was the only reason he managed to suppress it.

His gaze dropped once again as he continued. "There has to be."


	17. Chapter 17

**Author's Note:** Hey, super long chapter! Because I'm sorry for not updating normally OTL

Thank you to everyone who reviewed, and started following this story, as well as my return readers. Thanks for sticking with me through all the angst thus far

**Disclaimer: **Hetalia and its characters are property of Himaruya

~X~

Arthur couldn't tell if it was because of his disappearance, his never existing, or something entirely unrelated, but over the next handful of days it became steadily more obvious that something was wrong with Francis.

At first, it had been small things the teen noticed. Like how the artist spent more time staring at a page than actually sketching. Getting distracted easier, and easier, but then becoming so focused that nothing could shake him.

Later, it had escalated to not even leaving the apartment for anything, and never letting the teen out of his sight. Francis nearly stopped sleeping, though kept up the façade by staying in bed with Arthur until he thought the younger was asleep.

And sometimes, when he was sure the Brit wasn't actually paying attention, Arthur could have sworn that Francis looked like he was about to fall apart. He could almost watch those perfectly crafted grins, and laughs fall away to nothing.

It wasn't natural. Even after learning about his impending demise, Francis had managed to pull himself together almost obscenely quickly. It wasn't even his own problem this time, and the Frenchman seemed to shatter.

Arthur didn't say anything about it, though. He thought it wasn't his place. After all, who was he to question Francis on this?

It wasn't until he stopped eating for almost an entire day that he truly began to worry. That was when he realized that he needed to intervene, and quickly.

He waited until Francis had finally gotten distracted from his latest fixation, which was counting the number of holes in Arthur's t-shirt.

"Francis?" he started hesitantly the moment the blond let go of his sleeve.

Blue eyes flickered up to his, glazed over and distant.

That alone unnerved the Brit to no end. Still, he persisted. "Francis, is something wrong? You've been acting a bit… Odd." Understatement of the year.

In what was likely an attempt to put up a mask, he smiled. It looked strained to the point of nearly breaking, causing Arthur's anxiety to notch up a few levels. "I'm perfectly fine, Arthur," he tried to reassure the other. "A bit tired perhaps, but nothing you need to fret about." He pressed a quick kiss to Arthur's temple.

Arthur frowned. "Your lies aren't fooling me," he insisted. "Ever since I came back, you haven't been yourself. Don't tell me you're fine, because we both know your not."

And that's when his mask shattered completely. All those carefully crafted smiles airy dismissals had broken in a single instant. "It's nothing for you to worry about," Francis said. The words rang painfully hollow, and unnaturally soft.

Hesitantly, Arthur reached out to touch the back of his hand. "That's too bad, because I'm worrying anyways," he admitted. "Tell me."

Dulled, crystal eyes bore into his for a moment which neither of them spoke. Finally, Francis broke the silence, but without giving an answer. "Would you mind if I draw you?" he asked pleasantly. A slight strain was barely audible in his words; nothing compared to the devastation that was still written clearly on his features.

"Francis," Arthur sighed. "Talk to me. Don't try to distract me with this artist crap of yours. It won't work on me anymore."

"Indulge me," he insisted. "You promised that you would let me sketch you whenever I wished in my final days. So please?"

He glowered at the Frenchman. Francis was insufferable when he wanted something. Arthur was well aware of that by this point. However…

"Not unless you tell me what's bothering you," he said.

Francis' lips quirked into what was very nearly a disappointed frown. "It's nothing for you to worry about," he repeated. "Honestly, Arthur. You never let anything go, do you?"

Now he flat out glared at the artist. That was the pot calling the kettle black if ever he heard it. "You're one to talk," he retorted. "I don't think I would know a damn thing about you if I never caught you talking with other people. You're so intent on keeping your secrets from me that you can hardly blame me for wanting to know one. Can you please just tell me this one thing?"

That hit dead on. Arthur could see that clearly in his eyes. "I don't want to worry you," he murmured. Louder, he continued. "Chere, will you please just let me draw you today? I'm partial to this light right now, and your questions really can wait. The sun's angle can not."

Arthur gaped at the older man. How ridiculous could he be? Still, he found himself relenting to Francis. He had reached the point where he was about to give up. "If you wish," he said. "But don't think for a second I'm letting this go."

"I wouldn't expect you to," Francis agreed. "Now would you mind sitting on the window seat and wait for me to get a hard leaded pencil?"

Shaking his head in defeat, Arthur did as asked. The hard wood beneath him was far from comfortable, and the suns rays were harshly hitting him nearly in the eye. Clearly, this was not going to be a pleasant experience. It didn't help that he was well aware how meticulous Francis was when it came to positioning. Arthur suspected that by the time Francis finally got him exactly how he wanted him, the 'perfect light' would have long since faded.

He was shocked that when Francis went to sit him properly, there were only a few instructions.

"Back to the window. Legs apart just a little more. No, not that much, mon amour," he tutted. "You're not a whore, so I don't want you sitting like one. Can you just hold on to the edge of the seat? Perfect. Now slouch a bit, and look at the floor. If you move I may have to find a way to kill you," Francis half-heartedly teased.

It was mildly uncomfortable, Arthur found. It hurt his neck to hold this position, and it kept his shoulders stiff. Not being able to watch Francis sketch was also more than a little disconcerting as well.

'Anyone else wouldn't have those dreamer's eyes,' a phantom Francis snapped. The echo from months ago came back into his mind as a whisper that Arthur couldn't seem to forget.

It seemed silly, Arthur thought. Of course, most of the early time between the two of them seemed that way now. Really, anything prior to recently actually felt a little light compared to right now.

Just once during the hour long process of Francis drawing did Arthur chance a glance at the artist. If he didn't know better, he would have sworn that there were tears sliding down his cheeks as he focused on the page.

Arthur didn't look at him again for the rest of the night.

~X~

Impatiently, Arthur drummed his fingers against his knee as the telephone rang. The fact that he had to stoop to this nearly sickened him, but really he didn't see much of another choice at this point.

"You have reached the awesome Gilbert Beilschmidt, how can I help you?" a German accented voice answered cheerfully.

Arthur grimaced. Even that voice got on his nerves. "Gilbert, this is Arthur Kirkland," he replied. "I'm calling about Francis."

There was silence on the other end, broken only barely by the faint crackles of static. "What the hell did you do to him?" he asked flatly. "I swear, if you killed him…"

"You think I would call you if I did?" Arthur snapped back. He took a deep breath and reminded himself to calm down. Yelling at Francis' best friend would get him nowhere. "Antonio didn't answer, and I thought… He's acting strange, and I don't know how to help," he admitted.

There was a quiet rustling, as if Gilbert were flipping through a notebook. "Strange how? Like he's spacing off with that idiotic grin again, or he's being weirdly chatty all the damn time?"

That brought Arthur pause. "You're actually going to help?" he asked. Skepticism was heavy in his tone.

"I'm helping Franny," he retorted. "Seeing as you're the one who probably screwed up, you're going to have to be the one to fix it. Now which is it?"

"Neither," he admitted after a moment. "He's… He doesn't talk much. Smiles less. And I swear if he starts picking at the safety pins in my shirt again I might scream."

Gilbert gasped sharply on the other end. "You got depressed-OCD Franny?!" he nearly shrieked. "What the hell did you do to him?!"

Arthur flinched. That voice alone was grating, but brought up to that pitch… Ear shattering. "Nothing," he swore. "The second we got back to his place, he just shut down on me. How do I fix it?"

He could hear Gilbert muttering darkly in German as the rustling of pages quickened. "This has only happened once," he said to himself. "After Joan… Fucking hell, Reaper," he cursed.

Arthur silently waited, trying to tune out the other while keeping an eye on the bedroom door. Any moment Francis could walk out, and he didn't want to explain this.

"Ok, here's what's going to happen," Gilbert finally said. "You're going to pretend like you don't even notice. If he wants to talk, he'll talk. Otherwise, don't push him. Don't you dare let him drink, and just use common sense."

He waited a second before responding. "That's it? There's absolutely nothing I can do? No way to make him… Francis again?"

"Pretty much. You have to let him work through his own issues on his own time." Gilbert paused, and chuckled. "And it's going to suck, so I don't envy you even remotely."

Arthur grimaced. "Of course not," he muttered. "Well, thank you for your non-helpful help."

"If you need anything else, don't call me," he replied genially before hanging up.

For a moment, Arthur just stared at the handset before rolling his eyes. "Bastard," he added under his breath before hanging it up.

~X~

Against his better judgment, he followed Gilbert's advice of doing nothing. Much as it pained him to watch Francis slowly pick himself up as the days passed, Arthur really didn't see much he could actually do.

Thankfully, the artist was functional again much quicker than Arthur would have thought, given the albino's reaction. After that phone call, Arthur had been worried that he would never recover.

Yet, two days later, Francis was nearly back to normal. Though, he still lacked the levity from before, and Arthur still hadn't seen a genuine smile from him. It was better, though.

Well, until Francis decided that he was almost out of time.

"Arthur, we need to have a serious discussion," he said abruptly.

Arthur's focus shifted from the dog-eared library book to the artist. A few sheets of paper lay innocently on the floor in front of him.

He quirked an eyebrow in confusion.

"It's my final will and testament," he clarified. "There are a few points we need to talk about since…" Pain crossed his features for a fraction of a second. "Well, since I'm almost out of time."

Hearing that, Arthur flinched. "You still have some time left," he mumbled, averting his eyes.

"I have tonight, tomorrow, the next day, and then I'm done," Francis returned.

The harshness of reality hit home. "There's time on that last day," he argued weakly. "You almost have four days."

Francis sighed. "Four days, two days, it really doesn't matter anymore. We still need to talk about this, so if you would…"

He didn't want to. The last thing he wanted to do was to talk about the 'after'. But… There was no way that Arthur could not. Folding over the corner of the page, he shakily got up and approached Francis.

For the first time in a while, his hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail at the base of his neck. His eyes were focused on a specific page in his hand. "Don't worry; we only really need to talk about this one," he assured the younger without looking up.

That didn't even remotely assuage his dread. "Why do we need to talk about your will?" he asked. "Please tell me I'm not included in it."

A small smile tugged the corners of his lips, and Arthur felt his heart drop. It had been too long since he had seen that. He had almost forgotten how sweet it could be.

"Of course I did," he said. "I could never rest easily without knowing that you would be ok without me."

Arthur felt his cheeks warm. "I'll be fine," he said. "You don't need to leave me anything."

Francis shrugged, handing over the page. "Well, it will make me worry less. Don't look so terrified; I only left you a handful of things."

Arthur's eyes scanned the will absently as Francis continued to speak. He didn't really understand either of them. There were too many words strung together in a seemingly nonsensical order.

In the background, he only picked up a few words of Francis' ramble. "—not much to give…. There were a few issues… Oh, and the apartment."

That instantly got Arthur's full attention. "What about the apartment?"

Dismay quirked his lips. "Were you listening to me? I'm leaving you the apartment. Rent free for a year, I may add."

Arthur's mind went completely blank for a second. Then the panic set in. "No. No, I don't want it."

"Now, cher…"

"Francis, I can't live here. Not without you." As soon as those words passed his lips, Arthur wanted to take them back. Saying that made him blush, and generally feel like an idiot with a crush. "I mean…"

He shook his head slowly. "I already paid for it, Arthur," Francis said. "I know that you've been fine on your own for the past decade, but, really, the world is not as safe for the living. You could actually die out there."

Part of him wanted to say 'let me'. There was no way in hell he was going to stay here after Francis was gone. Not with all the memories of the man surrounding him, accusing him of being the one to kill the owner.

His reverie was broken when Francis reached out to cup his cheek. "It's because I'm worried about you," he said. "And, I'll admit being a bit selfish on this matter, I don't want you to forget me."

He snapped. That was really the final straw. All the guilt, all the pain, and panic that had been building up finally broke through. Francis, who had really been the only solid person in his life, wanted him to live in his home so Arthur wouldn't forget him? Did he not realize how emotionally upsetting that was going to be? Was he even thinking about Arthur's feelings when he made that decision?

"How the hell do you expect me to forget you?" Arthur retorted. "You're an arrogant bastard with his head in the clouds who doesn't care about anyone's feelings but his own! I tell you I can't live here, and I can't! But no, you insist that it's paid for, and that you don't want me to forget about you. Well fuck! I wish I could sometimes."

Francis stared at him, wounded. It almost looked as if his heart had broken, and as abruptly as it appeared, Arthur's anger vanished.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, averting his gaze. "You just don't seem to grasp… Francis, this is hard for me."

Francis was still stunned silent. His eyes were uncharacteristically wide, like a deer in headlights.

Horribly embarrassed, Arthur hid his face in his hands. "I like you too much," he admitted. "It's hard enough to come to terms with the fact that I'm going to be the one taking you away from this life. You telling me that you want me to stay here after, and that you don't want me to forget… That's like slapping me across the face. Did you ever try to see it my way?" By the end, his voice had risen again to a normal speaking tone. He didn't dare look up at the artist.

After what seemed like an eternity of silence, Francis spoke. "You're right. I didn't."

To Arthur's surprise, he didn't sound hurt, or upset, or even angry. Just painfully neutral.

"But there's one thing that you don't seem to understand," he continued. "And that's that I want it to hurt you. I want you to remember me, and everything that ever happened between us, and I want that to make you so hurt that you can't even breathe."

Arthur froze, suddenly robbed of oxygen at his words.

Francis lifted Arthur's jaw, forcing their eyes to meet. "I want this so I can live on in your memory, because I'm not going to be living anywhere else. You're right; I have my head in the clouds. But I'm hoping that you'll remember that, and maybe you'll manage to look up there for once."

Now, Arthur was the one rendered speechless. There was so much he wanted to say. He wanted to curse the man out, scream at him, and just inflict more pain on him. But, he somehow found that all he could do was sit there, trapped in those crystal blue eyes.

"That 'liking me too much' comment, though," Francis continued slowly. "I'm not sure that's even real for you. You may like me, but it's only a little bit, I promise. Maybe that small bit of 'like' you hold for me will eventually grow when I'm gone. Maybe one day you'll convince yourself that you were actually in love with me, even."

He flushed darker. "You're rude to assume my feelings aren't real," he replied. Still, he reached out to embrace Francis. "If this isn't real though, at least let me pretend for a while," he murmured.

After a moment's hesitation, he felt Francis' arms wrap around him as well. It would be a lie if Arthur said that he didn't feel the tears pricking his eyes.

'If only you knew I was always in love with you,' he thought bitterly.


	18. Chapter 18

**Author's Note: **Sorry this took a bit longer than I had hoped… I decided to give you guys a little bit of fluff as compensation for all the angst as of late. But only a little, because I can't write fluff ^^; Enjoy~

Thank you to everyone who followed, favorited, and left a review! I appreciate it a lot, guys *loves*

**Disclaimer: **Hetalia and its characters are property of Himaruya

~X~

From the moment he woke up, Arthur wished he hadn't. Though he couldn't tell the time by the lack of light, it felt a thousand hours too early, and he could already feel the aches from last night's stress.

Though, he could also feel the warmth of Francis' body against his back, and his arms wrapping around his waist. He could hear his voice as Francis had a one-sided conversation with him. That almost made the problems seem worth it.

It was all he could do to keep his breath even, and form still as he listened to the artist. The whole thing, at least at the beginning, had a very dream-like quality. A warm haze seemed settled over everything, and Francis seemed to be completely nonsensical.

"Just because you say something doesn't make it true," he said softly. "I know you may think it is, but really… I know you better than that. Much as you like to think otherwise."

Arthur idly wondered what he had missed in his earlier remarks. What he would give to understand what the hell Francis was talking about while he slept.

Ok, he actually wouldn't give much more than his shoes, but the point remained. He was curious.

"I'm going to miss you," he added in a whisper. "I know I say this to you a lot, but I will. When I'm gone, I hope I can find a way to stay with you somehow. A spirit, perhaps a ghost. Something. I wouldn't mind that too much. You would keep me company, and I would be able to come and go as I pleased."

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut even tighter, as if he could will himself back to unconsciousness. Ghosts didn't exist. There was no way for Francis to stay after his death. Still, he focused on taking slow, even breaths. He tried to imagine Francis as a very annoying ghost as a distraction.

"Though, I suppose you wouldn't like that. You would get sick of me in a week," he continued, a short, rueful chuckle accompanying that. "But, seeing as I will not be coming back as a Reaper…" Francis sighed. One of the arms around Arthur tightened, drawing them closer together, if possible.

Arthur tried very hard not to tense. As much as he wanted to reply, to tell him that even if that could be, it wouldn't be worth it, he held his tongue. In the back of his mind, he thought this was the conversation he had been trying to have for days. That was the only thing keeping him silent.

"I was really banking on that, you know," Francis continued, almost conversationally. "Surely you might have guessed that by now. I think that you notice nearly everything, when you can put the pieces together. From the day you told me I was going to die, I clung to that hope that perhaps I could make a deal with Death as well."

He fell silent for a moment as Arthur fought the urge to scream at him again. All at once, that warm haze of sleepiness evaporated.

"It's a shame, really. I don't think I would have minded so much. Then, perhaps, we could have actually been together, instead of this charade that we're putting on."

Finally, he couldn't take it anymore. "That's complete bullshit," Arthur thoughtlessly interjected. He nearly flinched at the loudness of his own voice before he turned over to look Francis dead in the eye. "Every single word is a damned lie," he continued softly, openly glaring at him in the pre-dawn light that only barely let him see.

Francis stared at him, mouth hanging open slightly. "How long have you been listening?" he asked, hesitation marking his voice. He unwound his arms from Arthur's waist as he slid back several inches.

Arthur grimaced, but it faltered after only a moment. His head was pounding now. "You said you were going to miss me," he said with a short sigh.

Relief washed over the Frenchman's expression.

"And if I ever hear you say that you wouldn't mind being like me, I will personally rip your soul out with my bare hands and deliver it to Death myself," he threatened. "It's a damn nightmare; not something to wish for."

Francis hummed in thought as he relaxed back into the mattress. "It was an idle thought, I assure you."

Arthur scoffed. "Somehow, I don't believe that," he muttered.

"Well, that doesn't surprise me."

Slowly, his eyes slipped shut as the early hour hit him. "It's too early for this shit," he said. "I'm going back to sleep."

Francis didn't move, or reply,

Again, he sighed as he tried to make himself comfortable. Once he was laying down, and his eyes had closed, his headache had substantially faded, thankfully.

For a few minutes, Arthur attempted to huddle deeper into the blankets. Even though it was July, he still felt a bit of a chill. Granted, it was plenty warm, but there was still something missing.

It only took those few minutes for him to pinpoint the problem. "Francis, get back over here," he grudgingly ordered. Sleeplessness had likely addled his brain; there was no way he would ever say anything of that sort had he been fully awake.

"What?" Francis asked, shock touching his voice.

Arthur scowled. "I'm cold," he clarified. "Much as I hate to admit it, and I really do loathe it, you're the best source of warmth in this damn place. So come back over here." After brief hesitation, he added, "Please."

Francis chuckled lightly, sliding over to lay next to him. "Better?" he asked.

Arthur paused. True, the punk could feel the heat radiating from the man next to him. But… Somehow it wasn't quite enough. "No," he grumbled.

He could almost sense Francis' smirk as he draped an arm over Arthur's waist. "Come here, then," he crooned. Gently, he tugged the teen closer.

Arthur could feel himself blush as he obliged, drawing closer.

"That's better…" Francis placed a chaste kiss against his forehead. "Sweet dreams, mon petit lapin."

In a matter of seconds, he was fast asleep with his cheek resting against Francis' chest.

~X~

Although he had no idea how it happened, Arthur woke up with his legs tangled with Francis', and his arms clinging to him.

And before complete mortification could set in, he realized that Francis was playing with his hair.

Silently, he wished for someone to shoot him now before he died of embarrassment.

"I take it you're awake now," Francis commented, still threading his fingers through Arthur's unruly hair. "You're rather tense."

For a moment, Arthur considered not saying anything, and pretending he was still sleeping.

"Are you mad at me still?" Francis asked after Arthur refused to reply. "I promise, it was really an idle remark. I don't intend to actually come back somehow. And if the Reaper thing offended you, then I'm sorry you heard it. Though not that I said that, because I truly stand by it."

"I'm not mad at you, idiot," Arthur muttered. Against his normal instincts, he snuggled closer to the other in an attempt to block everything out.

Needless to say, it failed.

"Oh, I'm an idiot now?" His words, thankfully, had no bite to them. It was more of a teasing remark. "I was hoping you thought higher of me."

Arthur sighed, enjoying the feeling of Francis' fingers running through his hair. "You can't expect me to actually be thinking right now," he replied.

Francis chuckled. "Well, you're cuddling with me, and being a semi-decent person, so... No. You're obviously not actually thinking right now. But, it's still pretty cute, you know."

"'M not cute," he contested. "And if you would stop touching my hair, I'd probably deck you, or some shit like that." It was an empty threat. Arthur had never really been one for actual violence. To be completely honest, it made him feel sick to consider.

"Then I suppose I'll just have to do this for the next two days," he said lightly.

Completely embarrassed, Arthur muttered some nonsense before settling in to drift into a contented daze.

~X~

"You're completely ridiculous," Arthur said bluntly.

"But wouldn't it be so cute?"

He rolled his eyes. "I don't care if it's cute; it's a bad idea."

Francis chuckled. "You're such a spoilsport," he teased. "All right, then. If we can't go on a cliché first date, can we at least have a fake wedding?"

"Francis, you're dying in less than forty eight hours. We aren't having a fake wedding."

"But what else are we going to do?" he nearly whined. "You're ruining all my brilliant plans, chere. You won't go on a cheesy date with me, you won't serenade me with your sexy British accent, and now you won't even get fake married to me? I don't want to sit around here being bored for the rest of my life."

Arthur rolled his eyes in exasperation. For some reason, Francis was being especially unreasonable today. Maybe that scream-fest had been what Francis really needed to get back to himself.

Suddenly, Francis' eyes lit up. "Wait here," he ordered as he dashed off to a different obscure corner of his apartment.

For a second, Arthur just stared after him in confusion. "What the hell are you doing?" he called after a few minutes had passed.

Just as abruptly as he had left, Francis traipsed back into the main room with a large, clunky CD player and a handful of loose discs.

"Do you not understand how modern technology works?" he asked blandly. Really, it was kind of ridiculous how far behind Francis was. No cell phone, no mp3 player, not even a computer. Frankly, Arthur was impressed he advanced to the stage of CDs.

Francis didn't deign to give a response. Instead, he shuffled through the CDs until he found the one he was looking for.

Within moments, soft piano music drifted through the air.

"This doesn't answer any of my questions," Arthur said as Francis approached him.

He laughed, levity radiating from him. "We're going to dance!" he nearly sang.

Before he could object, Arthur was caught in his arms, and forced to clumsily follow Francis' lead as he hummed along.

"I c-can't dance," he retorted. He made an attempt, in vain, to not trip over his own feet.

It wasn't long before Arthur toppled to the floor, dragging Francis with him.

Still, Francis grinned widely. "I'm teaching you to dance," he decided. "Don't rain on this parade; it's the perfect cure to my boredom."

Easily, Francis stood up, somehow managing to look obscenely graceful in the process. He held out a hand to help the teen up with that smile still etched on his lips.

Internally, Arthur sighed. "You're so selfish," he chided as he got up on his own. "Your boredom… I'm more worried about our time."

"That's a useless _waste_ of our time," Francis insisted. Once again, he placed a hand on Arthur's waist as he slid his palm against the punk's. "Let's just enjoy ourselves. No worries, no pressure. Just us, and the music."

Once again, Arthur struggled to keep up with the artist. It wasn't fair how he just seemed to glide on air, he thought. In the end, he just tried his best to keep up with the simple steps.

They danced together for almost two hours. The sun slanted through the window with the almost orange glow of sunset, and Francis decided he had had enough.

"We should do something else," he insisted. "I still want to hear you sing to me, you know."

Arthur nearly collapsed the second Francis let him go. Two straight hours, and he was physically exhausted. "I'm not moving," he insisted. Instead, he laid down on the floor.

"You're no fun," Francis said, pouting.

"As you constantly remind me."

He sighed, eventually laying down next to Arthur. "But I'm not ready to be done for today. It's early."

Arthur looked over to the artist. "Are you intending to just stay up for the next two days?" he asked.

Francis grinned. "Pretty much."

He groaned in exasperation. "You're ridiculous," he said, repeating his earlier words. "I'm not staying awake for that long."

"Then I'll amuse myself for the eight hours I let you sleep, and then we can continue our adventures from there."

For the first time in a while, Arthur really examined Francis. He almost seemed to glow, he noted in dismay. That arrogance had made a minor comeback in his lips, and there was something that was almost uncanny in the brightness of his eyes.

In short, he looked too happy for someone who was going to die.

"What is going on with you?" he wondered. "Yesterday, you wouldn't even leave the house unless I dragged you. Today, you're insisting we go everywhere at once.

A wall went up slightly around his expression, and Arthur knew he had hit the nail on the head. "I just want to make the most of everything," he returned blandly. "I've done my wallowing."

Arthur shook his head slowly. "I think you've just completely lost your mind," he said.

Francis chuckled. "You aren't the first to accuse me of that," he agreed lightly. "Now, are you going to sing to me, or not?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Never."

~X~

"Hey, Francis…"

The artist looked over from the window. For the last little while, Francis had been sitting there, watching the crowds of people below.

Arthur shuffled awkwardly, not entirely believing he was about to ask this. "Remember how yesterday you wanted to do that whole fake wedding thing?" he started.

Confusion furrowed Francis' brow. "You told me that you would never dream of doing such a thing," he confirmed.

He blushed bright red. "Erm… About that…" he muttered

Francis cocked a brow. "Are you serious?"

Arthur scowled. "I'm not doing any sort of marriage thing with you," he retorted. "I just thought… Well, I mean it's silly, but…" Slowly, he reached under his shirt, tugging on a silver chain.

The blonde's confusion seemed to increase tenfold, but he kept his mouth shut.

"Damn thing," he cursed. Arthur had been hoping he could just pull the stupid thing over his head, but that obviously wasn't going to happen. He fumbled with the clasp for a second before finally getting it undone.

"What exactly are you doing?" Francis finally asked. "And do you need help?"

"I already got it." Unceremoniously, he dumped the ring that hung from the chain into his hand. "Ok, so I know this is really late in the game, but I got something to say."

Francis shrugged, and made a motion indicating the teen to proceed.

He took a deep breath, and prayed to whatever God may exist that he didn't royally screw this up. "When I thought I was alive," he began slowly. Arthur examined the ring in his hand; a thick gold band with a single opal embedded in it. "I thought that this was my grandmother's."

Arthur smiled at the false memory. He had been told by his grandmother that her husband had been a summoner, and that the opal protected him from evil. He had died before Arthur could meet him.

"It never fit me," he continued, not looking up at Francis. "She told me to wear it always though, so I'd be safe from the darkness. I had always figured that's what saved me when I died."

He heard Francis' breath catch. Still, he pressed on. "I-I thought… I know it's ridiculous, but I thought that if you had it, maybe… Maybe it could protect you somehow." Arthur shrugged sheepishly, meeting Francis' eye.

Francis looked almost in awe. A small smile turned his lips.

Hurriedly, he handed the ring to the artist. "Don't you dare lose it," he added. "Fake or not, that ring means something to me."

He chuckled. "What an odd memory for you to have," Francis murmured, slipping the ring onto his finger. "Oddly specific, for one who doesn't have a past."

"Shut up."

Francis smirked. "It's a beautiful engagement ring," he taunted, fluttering his fingers.

Arthur gasped in horror. It was a perfect fit on his left ring finger. "It's not an engagement ring!" he snapped. "It's a protection charm."

He laughed freely. "I jest, I jest," he soothed. "But, if you don't have your protection charm…" Francis trailed off in thought. "Perhaps you could have something of mine. Granted, it won't have the same 'power'."

Arthur shook his head. "I won't need anything," he insisted. "Just… If you do manage to come back, don't forget to bring it."

Francis kissed his cheek. "I wouldn't dream of it," he assured him.

Arthur sighed shakily. From the window, he could see the sun setting. Francis' last sunset. "I'm really sorry," he murmured as he wrapped an arm around the seated blonde's shoulders. He hadn't said that in a very long time, he realized. Though his guilt had never truly dissipated.

Francis shrugged. "I'm not." A soft smile graced his lips as he looked outside. "I'm very content with the way everything has turned out."

The pair of them watched the sky turn black slowly. Neither of them spoke. There was simply nothing left for either of them to say.


	19. Chapter 19

**Author's Notes: **All right, guys. This is it. The last chapter of Deals with Death. This is what you've all been waiting for, so I hope you're ready for the angst-fest you're about to read OTL

I'll be posting an epilogue from Francis' point of view shortly, but this is the end. And after that, I'll be continuing this AU in Cheating Death, which should be starting in about two weeks. It's going to be PruAus, so you can see more of Gilbert there. Hope to see some of you reading that as well *shameless self-promotion*

Thank you to everyone who read, favorited, followed, and/or posted a review. You guys really were the ones who kept me going on this project

**Disclaimer:** Hetalia and its characters are property of Himaruya

~X~

Arthur couldn't sleep that night. Thoughts of what tomorrow held tormented him; keeping him wide awake the entire time.

Three a.m. found him sitting up against the headboard, brushing through Francis' hair with his fingers, reflecting on the last several months he had spent with the artist.

Before, he hadn't had much trouble completing his task. It hadn't been too difficult to take the life of another. Granted, it had made him feel a little sick to his stomach, but he had always been able to do it without feeling any lingering guilt.

The only problem in his life had been boredom. He had drifted around, frequenting libraries wherever he ended up. Whatever personality he may have had faded into a string of books that he read, and incessant people watching.

Until, however, he had been dragged into the alleyway of Francis Bonnefoy.

From that moment, everything had changed. Kills became increasingly more difficult as he slowly felt more like the human he believed he used to be. Constant irritation with Francis slowly developed into something akin to love.

Not that he would ever admit that, of course.

Once again, nagging suspicious tugged at his thoughts. He wondered if he would even be able to take Francis' life. After all the two of them had been through together… For Christ's sakes, he gave the man his grandmother's ring! How was he supposed to shoot him in the heart knowing that Francis was wearing it?

That was how he spent his last night as Death's Assassin: watching Francis as he slept, and wondering if he could even go through with his final job.

It was only when the lights started to grow brighter that clarity finally hit him. There was no way in hell he would be able to do it. Arthur could not, would not, take Francis' soul away.

The realization hit hard; effectively shocking him into a sort of manic terror that rendered him completely immobile.

That was how eight a.m. found him: panicking, exhausted, and clinging to the artist as if his own life depended on it. It was all he could do to keep himself from hyperventilating.

He was so focused on that task that he didn't even notice when Francis woke up.

"You're up early," Francis murmured. Sleep roughened his voice, startling Arthur.

He glanced down at the artist, and shrugged. Arthur didn't trust his voice to say anything at this point.

If Francis noticed, he didn't comment. Instead, he scooted over to rest his head on Arthur's lap. "How much time to I have left?" he asked quietly.

'Not enough,' Arthur thought. "Until ten twenty-seven," he replied mechanically. "I don't know what time it is right now, though."

Francis yawned, and wrapped his arms around the teen's hips. "Too early," he said dismissively.

After a moment's hesitation, Arthur began to thread his fingers through Francis' hair again. Hearing the artist speak had calmed him, somewhat. "It's not early enough," he contradicted. "I wish…"

The artist tensed at his words.

Arthur grimaced at that. "I wish you had more time," he finished. The lump in his throat rendered him unable to say any more.

It wasn't fair. Francis shouldn't have to die today. He should have years, decades left to live, instead of a few scant hours. Francis should be allowed forever to draw in his side street, cheerfully talking with his muses.

Before he realized how upset he was, Arthur was aware of the tears slipping down his cheeks. Hurriedly, he wiped them away before the artist could notice. At least he could comfort himself with the fact that Francis' death wouldn't be on his hands.

That being said, the knowledge didn't really make him feel any better.

"I'm sorry."

Those words brought Arthur back into focus, and he found himself looking straight into those crystal blue eyes.

Francis reached up to cradle his cheek. "I'm sorry," he repeated.

For a moment, Arthur just stared at him. Tears still fell from his eyes, faster now. He managed a shaky sigh before saying, "You've done nothing wrong."

~X~

Once he had sufficiently woken up, Francis insisted that they go to a church. They walked there side by side in complete silence. The artist was stone-faced—keeping his gaze firmly ahead, and never looking away.

Arthur followed suit. Being outside in the summer's building warmth, his resolve began to waver. Yes, it would be difficult to move forward with Francis gone. But wasn't that what life was about? To keep moving forward despite everything?

Rationality was tainted, though. Those thoughts of giving up his shot at life in the vain hope of saving Francis kept nagging at the back of his mind.

"I used to come here when I was a child," Francis said, breaking the silence.

Arthur snapped back into the present, and realized he was standing in front of the church he had killed that girl in. The wooden door creaked as Francis pushed it open, motioning the other to enter.

He took a deep breath before walking in. As expected, it was completely empty.

"Arthur, I need to tell you something," Francis started as he led the teen to the front row of pews. "Sit down."

He cast a hesitant look over to the older blond, before complying. It was an uncomfortable seat, perhaps more so that the artist's windowsill.

Francis kneeled down in front of him, pulling a small box from the pocket of his pants. "From the moment I saw you, I knew that you were going to be the one," he started, examining the box. "That you were going to be it for me."

Arthur flinched. He kept his eyes firmly on the Frenchman and away from the box in his hands. "That's a lie," he insisted hoarsely. "You could never have known that until the church."

The artist chuckled. "I knew I was going to love you from the instant I learned your name," he contradicted.

The Assassin froze completely as his cheeks blushed a near-crimson. Partly because that wasn't even remotely where he thought this conversation was going, but mostly because what the hell did Francis just say?

Francis pulled out a sad, sweet smile. "I know you don't feel the same," he allowed. "But all the same… I thought you would want to know that I loved you. And I wanted to give you something to replace your grandmother's ring."

At that, Francis flipped open the little box, exposing a golden ring inlaid with a pair of brilliant emeralds.

Arthur nearly gasped. "No way in hell," he automatically retorted. "It's too expensive; I can't."

Francis shrugged. "It was only the money I wouldn't need," he defended. "Besides, perhaps it will protect you from the darkness. It's nearly as bright as your eyes."

He looked away, unsure of what to say to that. "You're ridiculous," he mumbled. "Completely…"

A beatific smile turned his lips. "I don't mind. So long as you know my feelings."

Arthur squeezed his eyes shut, not needing that reminder. "It's a lie," he insisted hollowly. "It's like you said a couple days ago. You've just convinced yourself that you love me."

"Now that's a lie if I ever heard one," Francis replied. "I fell in love when you opened your mouth. It's merely now a matter of how deeply I have fallen for you. I'm old enough to know what it's like when one is in love. I have been in it multiple times."

He tried to block the Frenchman's words out. That wasn't what he wanted to hear. That was the opposite of what he wanted to hear. It would be so much easier if Francis didn't love him. Then he could maybe convince himself that he would be better off if he managed to kill Francis.

"Francis, I—"

A slender finger to his lips silenced the teen. "Don't say anything," Francis insisted. "I know how you feel, so don't dash my dreams of us being in love."

Hearing that broke Arthur's already fractured heart. He had been about to admit that he felt the same way.

Gently, Francis slid the ring on Arthur's finger, smiling when it fit perfectly. "How much time do I have left?" he asked, breaking the silence between them.

"Twenty three minutes." It was an automatic response. It had gotten close enough to Francis' time that Arthur could now sense down to the second how long he had left. As if an infernal clock had begun to tick in his head.

A shaky sigh passed his lips. His complexion looked pale, almost sickly. All the vitality of last night had vanished completely, leaving an empty shell. "Arthur, I'm afraid," Francis admitted. "I'm not ready to die yet."

The sting of tears once again pricked his eyes. "I know," he said. Desperately, he wished there were some other words he could pull. Something that would reassure the soon to be deceased.

Arthur wished he could tell Francis that he wouldn't go through with it. That he was going to fight tooth and nail to make sure that Francis didn't die.

It would be a fruitless effort, and they were both aware of that. All he would accomplish by saying that was causing Francis to panic even more.

Both of them were aware that there was nothing left for them to say. The heavy burden of silence lay over them, almost as if it would suffocate the pair.

Arthur found himself reaching for Francis' hands, and clasping it within his own. It wasn't much, but really, what else could he do?

Almost thoughtfully, he twined his fingers with the teens. "I have a request," Francis finally said, breaking the stifling sense of quiet.

"Anything," he thoughtlessly replied.

The artist smiled ruefully. He wiped the corner of his eyes with his free hand, though no tears had formed. "It isn't much," he assured the punk. "Not to you, at least."

Arthur nodded somberly, unsure of what he was getting at. He noticed faintly that Francis' hands had begun to shake.

"Let me take from you a final kiss." The words themselves were a command, but the voice behind them was that of a soft plea. "Just so I can die having that bit of hope that we could have been so much more."

The teen could feel his heart stop painfully. Slowly, he was realizing that what he and Francis had was a somehow more messed up version of Romeo and Juliet. "We would have been so much more," Arthur whispered. The pain was audible in his voice, and it made him flinch.

A touch of actual joy tainted his smile, a smile that was so arrogant merely months ago. Only a handful of seconds ago, it had been pained. "I know," he agreed, wistfulness touching his tone.

After taking a deep, shuddering breath, Arthur leaned forward to press his lips to Francis'. He didn't know why, but he felt that it was important that he was the one to initiate it. That maybe then Francis would realize that Arthur wasn't deluded when he said that he loved him.

Their lips moved together slowly, like the dances they had shared yesterday. There was something sweet, languid about the way they kissed.

It set butterflies not just in Arthur's stomach, but through his entire body as he gripped Francis' hand tighter. There was almost a sense that he could read everything Francis was feeling in that kiss.

So he decided to reciprocate. He would show the artist that he not only liked him a bit, but was completely head over heels.

Arthur insistently kissed him harder, desperately. His free hand wound through Francis' loose waves as he slipped his tongue against the seam of the Frenchman's lips.

He could hear Francis' breathing hitch slightly as he retorted; parting his lips and tangling his tongue with the Brit's in a way that left the teen nearly breathless.

They were pouring out their entire hearts to each other. Every bitter tear, every carefree laugh was shared with the other in the dance that their lips and tongues created together until Arthur had to pull away to breathe.

Faintly, he could feel how rapid his pulse had become. That was when he realized what he had to do.

Something close to serenity softened Francis' expression, though the marks of tears stained his cheeks.

Feeling almost cold now, Arthur released his hand, and stood up. He took a few steps back, putting distance between them.

"Is it time?" Francis asked, misinterpreting the Assassin's actions.

Arthur could feel the bow materialize in his hand, and automatically grimaced at its weight. "Seven minutes," he replied coolly. "Maybe eight, if the secondary takes a while to get here."

Confusion furrowed his brow. "Secondary?" he repeated.

He ascended his head. "The one who will actually be taking your soul," he said. "Because I refuse to take part in this any longer."

Francis looked as if he had been doused with a bucket of ice water. Alarm lit up his eyes, and he visibly tensed. "Arthur, you had better be joking," he said. Though, the threat lost its power when the blonde's voice shook. "Tell me you're joking."

A bitter smile turned Arthur's lips. "You aren't the only one capable of accepting their fate. If you're ready to die…" He hesitated, still a bit unsure. This was his last moment; he had to be sure not to leave behind any regrets. "So am I."

That was it. Now that the words had been spoken aloud, there was no way to turn back. Oddly, all the anxiety, the worry and fear melted away at the realization.

Francis did not feel the same. "Don't you dare throw it all away, Arthur Kirkland," he growled. "Don't you dare make me the reason you will never see true humanity."

Slowly, Arthur shook his head. "It's funny," he said with a wry grin. "You were the one all this time telling me that I'm human."

"This isn't what I meant," Francis hissed, walking over to grasp the teen's shoulders. "Arthur—"

"For the first time in years, Francis," he interrupted. "This is the first time I'm sure that I'm doing what's right. This is what it means to be human." Slowly, his eyes slipped shut as he felt his pulse slow. "Let me prove you were right."

The artist cupped his cheeks. "Not like this," he pleaded. "This proves nothing except that you're being irrational. _Think_, damn it! You aren't thinking it through! You'll never live again, and I… You said yourself that I'll die anyways."

Arthur took three steps back before allowing the weapon to drop from his grasp. It clattered against the hard floor.

Francis' eyes were glued to the bow, tears beginning to glaze over the crystal blue.

"Remember the third time we met?" Arthur asked gently. "You asked what I regretted."

Those tears spilled over, leaving fresh tracks down his face as he nodded.

Arthur steeled himself, refusing to walk over and wipe them away. "Because there are moments," he continued. "Times when you know there is no way to go back, and you sit there remembering everything you wish you hadn't said, and everything you wish you had done." He sighed shakily. "And right now, I know that this is one of those moments. And if I do this, I will never be able to look at myself in the mirror ever again. You will be my one regret, and I don't want that."

One minute, that clock in his head reminded him. Sixty precious seconds before he was dragged to hell. If he was lucky, maybe a few more.

"It's like Romeo and Juliet," Francis breathed. His voice was choked by tears that Arthur didn't want to hear.

"But so much worse," Arthur agreed. "Because I am willingly going along with it."

Francis closed his eyes, and shook his head as if he could change the future like that. "You're being ridiculous," he snapped. "Arthur, just pick up that bow and shoot me, please! I don't… I don't want you to die with me."

Arthur grimly smiled for a moment, before his eyes were caught by a void not a meter in front of him. He could hear the phantom screams of torment, and smell sulfur from the pit.

He knew his fate was sealed right then. "It's too late," he whispered. He found he couldn't look away from the blackness, and in there, he found truth. Not just clarity, but absolute truth.

"Arthur?" Fear dominated his tone, raising Francis' voice almost a full octave.

He had to tell him, Arthur realized. Francis needed to know the truth. "Vash was wrong," he said. "You… You were right."

"What are you talking about?"

Tears started to course down his face. He was going to die, and Arthur couldn't change that anymore. "I was human. My n-name is Arthur James Kirkland," he began, terror shaking his voice. "I was a freshman at the University of London, English major." The path to Hell widened, drawing closer. Panic began to take over as he took an automatic step back.

"Arthur!"

Finally, he was able to rip his eyes away from the void he realized Francis couldn't see. His eyes locked on the artist instead.

The artist looked just as afraid as he felt, if not more so. He had reached out a hand to the damned Assassin, as if that would save him. "Arthur, please," Francis begged.

Still, he found himself continuing. "I was going to be a writ-writer. I… I was disowned at sixteen, when I came out as g-gay."

Time was running out. If he was judging the expansion correctly, Arthur only had seconds left. If he was lucky, he could tell Francis one last thing. The only one that really counted.

He closed his eyes, ready to die, but too terrified to watch it. "And I'm sorry I never told y-you that, Francis Bonnefoy, I—"

~X~

Suddenly, it was dark. Silent.

His eyes flew open, realizing his body was suspended in nothingness. It was devoid of shrieks of pain, and that strong sulfur smell.

It was exactly what he pictured hell not to be. He chuckled blackly; the darkness absorbing the sound and leaving the place still quiet as the grave.

How perfect that this would be his Hell. Nothing but himself, and his every regret.

"Francis Bonnefoy, I love you," Arthur repeated softly, knowing that he had been unable to tell the artist.


	20. Epilogue

**Author's Notes: **… Sorry if that last chapter was more than a lot depressing ^^; This little epilogue should help a little… If it doesn't rip out your heart first.

**Disclaimer:** Hetalia and its characters are property of Himaruya

~X~

At first glance, Francis could tell the younger boy was cold. The blond teen with green dye clinging to the tips of his hair, watching the world as if he was above it. Everything about him seemed to be covered by a sheer veil of ice. Everything except those eyes.

Francis didn't need to think long before sliding over to stand next to him. That small glance of profile was all he needed to know the truth.

He needed to draw this teen.

A quick once-over only confirmed that. From clothes that were barely held together, a smattering of freckles across his cheeks, and a lack of shadow at his feet posed thousands of questions the artist wanted answers to.

He had thought it would be easy to get them. A handful of pretty compliments and a few evasive questions would have this punk doing whatever Francis wanted. That had always been the case when Francis wanted something. It was always easy to get it.

However, it only took thirty seconds for him to realize that there was no way in hell that was going to happen. The kid was frustratingly tight lipped, and bitingly sarcastic to match. He seemed instantly distrustful of the Frenchman.

And it only got worse over time. Lies passed Arthur's lips almost as easily as the truth, leaving it difficult to decipher which was which. Thankfully, Francis was quick to pick up on the little ticks that gave him away.

Arthur had warned him multiple times to leave him alone, but Francis refused to listen. He was infatuated with the mystery.

The second he saw the teen in action, though… Francis almost wished he had walked away when Arthur gave him the chance.

A Grim Reaper under the guise of a pretty teenage boy. One with Francis' name in his ledger. There was almost nothing as dangerous as Arthur.

Yet, Francis still couldn't bring himself to leave. Something about those eyes had him hypnotized. They had him coming back for more as he slowly fell for the boy.

It only grew more difficult. The teen looked so fragile, like he would shatter if Francis were to simply touch him. But, he couldn't help but to do so. It took nearly a month before he first reached out to take Arthur's hand.

From that moment on, Francis never wanted to let go. It didn't matter if the Reaper was going to kill him without a care, or that he really didn't like him. Francis wanted to keep Arthur by his side forever.

He had saved up his money to buy a ring for Arthur. He had decided that he was going to spend the remainder of his time showing his affection for the teen. After a month, he had made enough to buy something that was perfect. It was a simple gold band, with two brilliant emeralds that reminded Francis of the punk's eyes. Bright, real, and completely raw with feeling.

Then, seeing him drenched in blood, barely able to form a sentence, the artist had nearly snapped. How dare someone force someone so young to witness something so inhumane? Where was the justice?

Still, it gave him the perfect opportunity to insist that Arthur stay with him. He played it off as himself being selfish, which the teen would believe. But he didn't realize that it was Francis' way of trying to protect him.

After that, touches became more frequent. He rained kisses down on every inch of his face, except for those lips. When Arthur slept, he would comb through his hair, and trace the soft curves of his face. Once or twice, he dared to caress the sweeping line of his collar that was hidden beneath the shirt Arthur borrowed to sleep in.

Never anything more. He swore to himself that if he ever really advanced on Arthur, that the punk would be awake, and willing.

He knew that Arthur was going to take his life. Francis had even come to accept that, thinking that he would simply find a way to make a deal the way Arthur had. It may take a decade or so, but then he and Arthur could finally be together.

Because at this point, he knew he was completely in love with the teenage Reaper. He was charmed by everything, from the way he always had a quick retort, to the simple way he turned the page of a book.

Then, the teen had vanished for nearly a week. He had immediately called on his two best friends, and insisted that they help him search. Francis was completely panicked, and he knew that alone scared both Antonio and Gilbert.

When he turned back up, Francis was relieved, but completely furious. When he found out why he had vanished…

The Frenchman had completely shut down. There was no longer any chance that he would be able to live happily ever after with Arthur. Though he hadn't believed it at first, when Antonio announced there was no record of an Arthur Kirkland there was no way to dispute that.

After a handful of days, he realized that there was almost no time left. That's when panic truly set in. He had planned on sweeping the Brit off his feet; not wallowing in self-pity.

He put all his effort in bringing the two of them closer during his final days. A few times, Francis got the sense that perhaps Arthur was in love with him. But that was always quickly dashed when Arthur would return to his silence, and irritated scowls.

But then, Arthur gave him a ring. It was beautiful; the opal in the center glistening like it was brand new. He claimed that he believed it was his grandmother's.

Silence fell over them. There had been nothing left for them to say. Still, Francis couldn't believe that Arthur was actually in love. Apologies fell from his lips instead of those three simple words.

Once they had reached the church he had attended in high school on his final day, all hell broke loose. He insisted on giving Arthur the ring he had bought so long ago, and asked for a kiss.

Francis was surprised when Arthur was the one to kiss him, and then by the intensity that the punk poured into it. It sent shivers down his spine.

But only moments later, the teen had been looking at him defiantly, standing away from him as he insisted that he would not take Francis' life.

Everything shattered. There was no way that Francis could abide by that; Arthur had spent a decade collecting souls, and to throw away all that effort… And for what? Nothing. The artist had accepted he was a dead man a long time ago. Nothing Arthur could do would change that.

Before he could change his mind, Arthur was gone. He hadn't even been able to finish his sentence as he slowly started to disintegrate into nothing but dust before Francis' eyes. The panic in Arthur's gaze haunted Francis for the remainder of his life.

He had spent his last moments doing exactly what he promised: proving to Francis that he was human.

Once Arthur was gone, he just stood there for a moment. "Oh my god," he breathed. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest at a rate that was almost definitely dangerous. He collapsed to his knees, staring at the place where Arthur had stood not moments before.

Hysterical giggles started to fall from his lips, as tears continued to flow. Soon, he was sobbing, unable to contain the overwhelming flood of emotions. Gone. Arthur was gone, damned to hell, never to return. It was too much to bear.

That's when he heard the church door slam open as quick footsteps clicked towards him.

"I'm sorry we had to meet on such unfortunate terms," a man with a faint Austrian accent said. "Gilbert says I would have gotten along with you."

Francis only had enough time to turn around before he was pierced through with a silver sword. Then, everything was black.

~X~

"Francis Bonnefoy."

The artist looked up, eyes meeting nothing but darkness. He was a bit shell shocked from the sudden change in location. "Oui?" he asked, nervously slipping back into his native tongue.

"Do you know where you are?" the velvety voice asked; the sound seeming to come from everywhere.

His eyes slipped shut. This was too bizarre to be true. "I'm dead," he stated.

He could almost hear the sneer in the darkness. "Very good. Now Francis… Let's make a deal." His voice caressed over the final word. "I'm sure you won't regret it."

Francis suppressed a shudder as he finally understood why Arthur despised that word. Spoken in Death's enthralling voice made him feel almost sick to his stomach.

'It would have been better if I had just stayed dead,' Arthur's voice whispered. 'It's a damn nightmare; not something to wish for.'

Francis grimaced. He didn't want to trust this voice. But at the same time… Memories of Arthur and his brilliant eyes, and charming laugh flashed through his thoughts. Thoughts of the boy he fell in love with at the sound of his name.

"Could you bring him back?" he asked softly. "Arthur Kirkland. Could he come back with me?" He was pleading, but he didn't care. There was no one to judge him but Death.

There was a thoughtful pause. It seemed to drag on for eternities. Just as Francis was about to give up, the phantom voice replied. "I'm sure we can arrange something."


	21. Potential Sequel?

**Attention: I am heavily considering writing a direct sequel to this fanfiction, which would continue on this storyline from Francis' point of view. I'm putting up a poll on my account on the matter, if any of you would like to weigh in. Thank you so much for your time.**


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